OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 


OUK  FRIEND 
JOHN  BURROUGHS 

BY 

CLARA  BARRUS 
f( 

INCLUDING  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 
BY  MR.  BURROUGHS 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM 
PHOTOGRAPHS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  1314 


'•    :':;i    :  .V  , 


CONTENTS 

OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS  ....  1 
THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST  .  .  19 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 45 

ANCESTRY  AND  FAMILY  LIFE     ....       46 

CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH 73 

SELF-ANALYSIS 109 

THE  EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS  .  148 
A  WINTER  DAY  AT  SLABSIDES  ....  184 
BACK  TO  PEPACTON 195 

CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  Mum  .  .  227 
JOHN  BURROUGHS:  AN  APPRECIATION  .  .  .  255 

INDEX        ....       .       .       .       ..  275 


925590 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


JOHN  BURROUGHS  .......      ...  Frontispiece 

SLABSIDES ...      6 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott.    . 

RlVERBT  FROM  THE  ORCHARD 22 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 

THE  STUDY,  RIVERBY 24 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 

BIRTHPLACE  OF  JOHN   BURROUGHS,   ROXBURY,  NEW 
YORK 60 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 

THE  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE,  ROXBURY,  NEW  YORK    .      .   74 

From  a  photograph  by  M.  H.  Fanning. 

ONE  OF  MR.  BURROUGHS'S  FAVORITE  SEATS,  ROXBURY, 
NEW  YORK 116 

From  a  photograph  by  Clifton  Johnson. 

THE  LIVING-ROOM,  SLABSIDES 186 

From  a  photograph  by  William  T.  Innea. 

WOODCHUCK  LODGE  AND  BARN 198 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 

MR.  BURROUGHS    IN  THE  HAY-BARN  STUDY,  WOOD- 
CHUCK  LODGE 200 

From  a  photograph  by  Dr.  Daniel  Russell. 

vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

CRADLE  IN  WHICH  JOHN  BURROUGHS  WAS  HOCKED  .  202 

From  a  photograph  by  Dr.  John  D.  Johnson. 

VIEW  OP  THE  CATSKILLS  FROM  WOODCHUCK  LODGE  .  208 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 

LIVING-ROOM,  WOODCHUCK  LODGE,  WITH  RUSTIC  FUR 
NITURE  MADE  BY  MR.  BURROUGHS 220 

From  a  photograph  by  M.  H.  Fanning. 

ON  THE  PORCH  AT  WOODCHUCK  LODGE     ....  224 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 

JOHN  MUIR  AND  JOHN  BURROUGHS,  PASADENA,  CALI 
FORNIA    238 

From  a  photograph  by  George  B.  King. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS  AND  JOHN  MUIR  IN  THE  YOSEMITE  248 

From  a  photograph  by  F.  P.  Clatworthy. 

MB.  BURROUGHS  SITTING  FOR  A  STATUETTE    .      .      .  258 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott. 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 


OUK  FRIEND 
JOHN  BURROUGHS 

*¥  71  7E  all  claim  John  Burroughs  as  our  friend. 
V  V  He  is  inextricably  blended  with  our  love  for 
the  birds  and  the  flowers,  and  for  all  out  of  doors; 
but  he  is  much  more  to  us  than  a  charming  writer 
of  books  about  nature,  and  we  welcome  familiar 
glimpses  of  him  as  one  welcomes  anything  which 
brings  him  in  closer  touch  with  a  friend. 

A  clever  essayist,  in  speaking  of  the  "  obituary 
method  of  appreciation,"  says  that  we  feel  a 
slight  sense  of  impropriety  and  insecurity  in  con 
temporary  plaudits.  "  Wait  till  he  is  well  dead, 
and  four  or  five  decades  of  daisies  have  bloomed 
over  him,  says  the  world;  then,  if  there  is  any 
virtue  in  his  works,  we  will  tag  and  label  them  and 
confer  immortality  upon  him."  But  Mr.  Burroughs 
has  not  had  to  wait  till  the  daisies  cover  him  to 
be  appreciated.  A  multitude  of  his  readers  has 
sought  him  out  and  walked  amid  the  daisies  with 
him,  listened  with  him  to  the  birds,  and  gained 
countless  delightful  associations  with  all  these 
things  through  this  personal  relation  with  the 

1 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

author;  and  these  friends  in  particular  will,  I 
trust,  welcome  some  "contemporary  plaudits." 

As  a  man,  and  as  a  writer,  Mr.  Burroughs  has 
been  in  the  public  eye  for  many  years.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-three  he  had  an  article  printed  in 
the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  in  1910  that  jour 
nal  celebrated  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  con 
tributions  to  its  columns.  Early  in  his  career  he 
received  marked  recognition  from  able  critics,  and 
gratifying  responses  from  readers.  It  is  rare  in  the 
history  of  an  author  that  his  books  after  fifty  years 
of  writing  have  the  freshness,  lucidity,  and  charm 
that  Mr.  Burroughs's  later  books  have.  A  critic 
in  1876  speaks  of  his  "quiet,  believing  style,  free 
from  passion  or  the  glitter  of  rhetoric,  and  giving 
one  the  sense  of  simple  eyesight";  and  now,  con 
cerning  one  of  his  later  books,  "Time  and  Change," 
Mr.  Brander  Matthews  writes:  "In  these  pellucid 
pages  —  so  easy  to  read  because  they  are  the  result 
of  hard  thinking  —  he  brings  home  to  us  what  is 
the  real  meaning  of  the  discoveries  and  the  theories 
of  the  scientists.  ...  He  brings  to  bear  his  search 
ing  scientific  curiosity  and  his  sympathetic  inter 
preting  imagination.  ...  All  of  them  models  of  the 
essay  at  its  best  —  easy,  unpedantic,  and  unfail 
ingly  interesting." 

From  school-children  all  over  the  United  States, 
from  nearly  every  civilized  country  on  the  globe, 

i 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

from  homes  of  the  humble  and  of  the  wealthy,  from 
the  scholar  in  his  study,  from  the  clergyman,  the 
lawyer,  the  physician,  the  business  man,  the  farmer, 
the  raftsman,  the  sportsman,  from  the  invalid  shut 
in  from  the  great  outdoors  (but,  thanks  to  our 
friend,  not  shut  out  from  outdoor  blessings),  have 
come  for  many  years  heartfelt  letters  attesting  the 
wholesome  and  widespread  influence  of  his  works. 

President  Roosevelt  a  few  years  ago,  in  dedicat 
ing  one  of  his  books  to  "Dear  Oom  John,"  voiced 
the  popular  feeling:  "It  is  a  good  thing  for  our 
people  that  you  have  lived,  and  surely  no  man 
can  wish  to  have  more  said  of  him." 

Some  years  ago,  the  New  York  "  Globe,"  on  an 
nouncing  a  new  book  by  Mr.  Burroughs,  said,  "  It 
has  been  the  lot  of  few  writers  of  this  country  or  of 
any  country  to  gain  such  good  will  and  personal 
esteem  as  for  many  years  have  been  freely  given  to 
John  Burroughs."  If  we  ask  why  this  is  so,  we  find 
it  answered  by  Whitman,  who,  in  conversation  with 
a  friend,  said,  "John  is  one  of  the  true  hearts  —  one 
of  the  true  hearts  —  warm,  sure,  firm." 

Mr.  Burroughs  has  been  much  visited,  much 
"appreciated,"  much  rhymed  about,  much  painted, 
modeled,  and  photographed,  and  —  much  loved. 
Because  he  has  been  so  much  loved,  and  because 
his  influence  has  been  so  far-reaching,  it  has  seemed 
to  me  that  a  book  which  gives  familiar  and  inti- 

3 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

mate  glimpses  of  him  will  be  welcomed  by  the 
legion  who  call  him  friend.  The  exceptional  oppor 
tunities  I  have  enjoyed  for  many  years  past  of 
observing  him  encourage  me  in  the  undertaking. 

The  readers  of  Mr.  Burroughs  crave  the  personal 
relation  with  him.  Just  as  they  want  to  own  his 
books,  instead  of  merely  taking  them  from  the 
public  libraries,  so  they  want  to  meet  the  man,  take 
him  by  the  hand,  look  into  his  eyes,  hear  his  voice, 
and  learn,  if  possible,  what  it  is  that  has  given  him 
his  unfailing  joy  in  life,  his  serenity,  his  compre 
hensive  and  loving  insight  into  the  life  of  the  uni 
verse.  They  feel,  too,  a  sense  of  deep  gratitude  to 
one  who  has  shown  them  how  divine  is  the  soil 
under  foot  —  veritable  star-dust  from  the  gardens 
of  the  Eternal.  He  has  made  us  feel  at  one  with 
the  whole  cosmos,  not  only  with  bird  and  tree,  and 
rock  and  flower,  but  also  with  the  elemental  forces, 
the  powers  which  are  friendly  or  unfriendly  accord 
ing  as  we  put  ourselves  in  right  or  wrong  relations 
with  them.  He  has  shown  us  the  divine  in  the  com 
mon  and  the  near  at  hand;  that  heaven  lies  about 
us  here  in  this  world;  that  the  glorious  and  the 
miraculous  are  not  to  be  sought  afar  off,  but  are 
here  and  now;  and  that  love  of  the  earth-mother 
is,  in  the  truest  sense,  love  of  the  divine:  "The 
babe  in  the  womb  is  not  nearer  its  mother  than 
are  we  to  the  invisible,  sustaining,  mothering 

4 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

powers  of  the  universe,  and  to  its  spiritual  entities, 
every  moment  of  our  lives."  One  who  speaks  thus 
of  the  things  of  such  import  to  every  human  soul  is 
bound  to  win  responses;  he  deals  with  things  that 
come  home  to  us  all.  We  want  to  know  him. 

Although  retiring  in  habit,  naturally  seeking 
seclusion,  Mr.  Burroughs  is  not  allowed  over 
indulgence  in  this  tendency.  One  may  with  truth 
describe  him  as  a  contemporary  described  Edward 
FitzGerald  —  "an  eccentric  man  of  genius  who 
took  more  pains  to  avoid  fame  than  others  do  to 
seek  it."  And  yet  he  is  no  recluse.  When  disciples 
seek  out  the  hermit  in  hiding  behind  the  vines  at 
Slabsides,  they  find  a  genial  welcome,  a  simple, 
homely  hospitality;  find  that  the  author  merits  the 
Indian  name  given  him  by  a  clever  friend  —  "  Man- 
not-af  raid-of  -company . " 

The  simplicity  and  gentleness  of  this  author  and 
his  strong  interest  in  people  endear  him  to  the 
reader;  we  feel  these  qualities  in  his  writings  long 
before  meeting  him  —  a  certain  urbanity,  a  toleiv 
ant  insight  and  sympathy,  and  a  quiet  humor. 
These  draw  us  to  him.  Perhaps  after  cherishing  his 
writings  for  years,  cherishing  also  a  confident  feel 
ing  that  we  shall  know  him  some  day,  we  obey  a 
sudden  impulse,  write  to  him  about  a  bird  or  a 
flower,  ask  help  concerning  a  puzzling  natural- 
history  question,  tell  him  what  a  solace  "Waiting" 

5 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

is,  what  a  joy  his  books  have  been;  possibly  we 
write  some  verses  to  him,  or  express  appreciation 
for  an  essay  that  has  enlarged  our  vision  and  opened 
up  a  new  world  of  thought.  Perhaps  we  go  to  see 
him  at  Slabsides,  or  in  the  Catskills,  as  the  case 
may  be;  perhaps  in  some  unexpected  way  he  comes 
to  us  —  stops  in  the  same  town  where  we  live, 
visits  the  college  where  we  are  studying,  or  we 
encounter  him  in  our  travels.  In  whatever  way 
the  personal  relation  comes  about,  we,  one  and  all, 
share  this  feeling:  he  is  no  longer  merely  the  favor 
ite  author,  he  is  our  friend  John  Burroughs. 

I  question  whether  there  is  any  other  modern 
writer  so  approachable,  or  one  we  so  desire  to  ap 
proach.  He  has  so  written  himself  into  his  books 
that  we  know  him  before  meeting  him;  we  are 
charmed  with  his  directness  and  genuineness,  and 
eager  to  claim  the  companionship  his  pages  seem  to 
offer.  Because  of  his  own  unaffected  self,  our  arti 
ficialities  drop  away  when  we  are  with  him;  we 
want  to  be  and  say  and  do  the  genuine,  simple 
thing;  to  be  our  best  selves;  and  one  who  brings  out 
this  in  us  is  sure  to  win  our  love. 

Mr.  Burroughs  seems  to  have  much  in  common 
with  Edward  FitzGerald;  we  may  say  of  him  as  has 
been  said  of  the  translator  of  the  "Rub£iyat": 
"Perhaps  some  worship  is  given  him  ...  on  ac 
count  of  his  own  refusal  of  worship  for  things  un- 

6 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

worthy,  or  even  for  things  merely  conventional.'* 
Like  FitzGerald,  too,  our  friend  is  a  lover  of  soli 
tude;  like  him  he  shuns  cities,  gets  his  exhilaration 
from  the  common  life  about  him;  is  inactive,  easy 
going,  a  loiterer  and  saunterer  through  life;  and 
could  say  of  himself  as  FitzGerald  said,  on  describ 
ing  his  own  uneventful  days  in  the  country:  "Such 
is  life,  and  I  believe  I  have  got  hold  of  a  good  end  of 
it."  Another  point  of  resemblance:  the  American 
dreamer  is  like  his  English  brother  in  his  extreme 
sensitiveness  —  he  cannot  bear  to  inflict  or  experi 
ence  pain.  "I  lack  the  heroic  fibre,"  he  is  wont  to 
say.  FitzGerald  acknowledged  this  also,  and,  com 
menting  on  his  own  over-sensitiveness  and  tendency 
to  melancholy,  said,  "It  is  well  if  the  sensibility 
that  makes  us  fearful  of  ourselves  is  diverted  to 
become  a  case  of  sympathy  and  interest  with  na 
ture  and  mankind."  That  this  sensibility  in  Mr. 
Burroughs  has  been  so  diverted,  all  who  are  famil 
iar  with  his  widespread  influence  on  our  national 
life  and  literature  will  agree. 

In  a  bright  descriptive  article  written  a  few  years 
ago,  Mrs.  Isabel  Moore  dispels  some  preconceived 
and  erroneous  notions  about  Mr.  Burroughs,  and 
shows  him  as  he  is  —  a  man  keenly  alive  to  the 
human  nature  and  life  around  him.  "The  boys  and 
girls  buzzed  about  him,"  she  says,  "as  bees  about 
some  peculiarly  delectable  blossom.  He  walked 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

with  them,  talked  with  them,  entranced  them  .  .  . 
the  most  absolutely  human  person  I  have  ever 
met  —  a  born  comrade,  if  there  ever  was  one;  in 
daily  life  a  delightful  acquaintance  as  well  as  a 
philosopher  and  poet  and  naturalist,  and  a  few 
other  things."  She  describes  him  riding  with  a  lot 
of  young  people  on  a  billowy  load  of  hay;  going  to  a 
ball-game,  at  which  no  boy  there  enjoyed  the  con 
test  more,  or  was  better  informed  as  to  the  points 
of  the  game.  "Verily,"  she  says,  "he  has  what 
Bjornson  called  *the  child  in  the  heart.'" 

It  is  the  "child  in  the  heart,"  and,  in  a  way,  the 
"child"  in  his  books,  that  accounts  for  his  wide 
appeal.  He  often  says  he  can  never  think  of  his 
books  as  works,  because  so  much  play  went  into 
the  making  of  them.  He  has  gone  out  of  doors  in  a 
holiday  spirit,  has  had  a  good  time,  has  never  lost 
the  boy's  relish  for  his  outings,  and  has  been  so 
blessed  with  the  gift  of  expression  that  his  own 
delight  is  communicated  to  his  reader. 

And  always  it  is  the  man  behind  the  book  that 
makes  the  widest  appeal.  In  1912,  a  Western  archi 
tect,  in  correspondence  with  the  writer  concerning 
recent  essays  of  Mr.  Burroughs,  said :  — 

I  have  had  much  pleasure  and  soul-help  in  reading  and 

re-reading  "The  Summit  of  the  Years."  In  this,  and  in 

*  All's  Well  with  the  World,"  is  mirrored  the  very  soul 

of  the  gentlest,  the  most  lovable  man-character  I  have 

8 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

ever  come  across  in  literature  or  life.  ...  To  me  all  his 
books,  from  "Wake-Robin"  to  "Time  and  Change," 
radiate  the  most  joyous  optimism.  .  .  .  During  the  past 
month  I  have  devoted  my  evenings  to  re-reading  [them], 
.  .  .  He  has  always  meant  a  great  deal  more  to  me  than 
merely  intellectual  pleasure,  and,  next  to  Walt  Whit 
man,  has  helped  me  to  keep  my  life  as  nearly  open  to  the 
influences  of  outdoors  and  the  stars  as  may  be  in  a 
dweller  in  a  large  town. 

As  I  write,  a  letter  comes  from  a  Kansas  youth, 
now  a  graduate  student  at  Yale,  expressing  the 
hope  that  he  can  see  Mr.  Burroughs  at  Slabsides  in 
April:  "  There  is  nothing  I  want  to  say  —  but  for  a 
while  I  would  like  to  be  near  him.  He  is  my  great 
good  teacher  and  friend.  ...  As  you  know,  he  is 
more  to  me  than  Harvard  or  Yale.  He  is  the  big 
gest,  simplest,  and  serenest  man  I  have  met  in  all 
the  East." 

I  suppose  there  is  no  literary  landmark  in  Amer 
ica  that  has  had  a  more  far-reaching  influence 
than  Slabsides.  Flocks  of  youths  and  maidens  from 
many  schools  and  colleges  have,  for  the  past  fifteen 
years,  climbed  the  hill  to  the  rustic  cabin  in  all  the 
gayety  and  enthusiasm  of  their  young  lives.  Bui 
they  have  seen  more  than  the  picturesque  retreat  of 
a  living  author;  they  have  received  a  salutary  im 
pression  made  by  the  unostentatious  life  of  a  man 
who  has  made  a  profound  impression  on  his  day 

9 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

and  age;  they  have  gone  their  separate  ways  with 
an  awakened  sense  of  the  comradeship  it  is  possible 
to  have  with  nature,  and  with  an  ennobling  affec 
tion  for  the  one  who  has  made  them  aware  of  it. 
And  this  affection  goes  with  them  to  whatever 
place  on  the  globe  their  destinies  carry  them.  It  is 
transmitted  to  their  children;  it  becomes  a  very 
real  part  of  their  lives. 

"  My  dear  John  Burroughs  —  Everybody's  dear 
John  Burroughs,"  a  friend  writes  him  from  London, 
recounting  her  amusing  experiences  in  the  study  of 
English  birds.  And  it  is  "  Everybody's  dear  John 
Burroughs"  who  stands  in  the  wide  doorway  at 
Slabsides  and  gives  his  callers  a  quiet,  cordial  wel 
come.  And  when  the  day  is  ended,  and  the  visitor 
goes  his  way  down  the  hill,  he  carries  in  his  heart 
a  new  treasure — the  surety  that  he  has  found  a 
comrade. 

Having  had  the  privilege  for  the  past  twelve 
years  of  helping  Mr.  Burroughs  with  his  corre 
spondence,  I  have  been  particularly  interested  in 
the  spontaneous  responses  which  have  come  to  him 
from  his  young  readers,  not  only  in  America,  but 
from  Europe,  New  Zealand,  Australia.  Confident 
of  his  interest,  they  are  boon  companions  from  the 
start.  They  describe  their  own  environment,  give 
glimpses  of  the  wild  life  about  them,  come  to  him 
with  their  natural-history  difficulties;  in  short, 

10 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

write  as  to  a  friend  of  whose  tolerant  sympathy 
they  feel  assured.  In  fact,  this  is  true  of  all  his  cor 
respondents.  They  get  on  easy  footing  at  once. 
They  send  him  birds,  flowers,  and  insects  to  iden 
tify;  sometimes  live  animals  and  birds  —  skylarks 
have  been  sent  from  England,  which  he  liberated 
on  the  Hudson,  hoping  to  persuade  them  to  become 
acclimated;  "St.  John's  Bread,"  or  locust  pods, 
have  come  to  him  from  the  Holy  Land;  pressed 
flowers  and  ferns  from  the  Himalayas,  from  Africa, 
from  Haleakala. 

Many  correspondents  are  considerate  enough 
not  to  ask  for  an  answer,  realizing  the  countless 
demands  of  this  nature  made  upon  a  man  like  Mr. 
Burroughs;  others  boldly  ask,  not  only  for  a  reply, 
but  for  a  photograph,  an  autograph,  his  favorite 
poem  written  in  his  own  hand,  a  list  of  favorite 
books,  his  views  on  capital  punishment,  on  univer 
sal  peace,  on  immortality;  some  naively  ask  for  a 
sketch  of  his  life,  or  a  character  sketch  of  his  wife 
with  details  of  their  home  life,  and  how  they  spend 
their  time;  a  few  modestly  hope  he  will  write  a  poem 
to  them  personally,  all  for  their  very  own.  A  man 
of  forty -five  is  tired  of  the  hardware  business,  lives 
in  the  country,  sees  Mr.  Burroughs's  essays  in  the 
"  Country  Calendar,"  and  asks  him  to  "  learn"  him 
to  "  rite  for  the  press." 

Some  readers  take  him  to  task  for  his  opinions, 
11 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

some  point  out  errors,  or  too  sweeping  statements 
(for  he  does  sometimes  make  them) ;  occasionally 
one  suggests  other  topics  for  him  to  write  about; 
others  labor  to  bring  him  back  into  orthodox  paths; 
hundreds  write  of  what  a  comfort  "Waiting"  has 
been;  and  there  are  countless  requests  for  permis 
sion  to  visit  Slabsides,  as  well  as  invitations  to  the 
homes  of  his  readers. 

Many  send  him  verses,  a  few  the  manuscripts 
of  entire  books,  asking  for  criticism.  (And  when  he 
does  give  criticism,  he  gives  it  "unsweetened," 
being  too  honest  to  praise  a  thing  unless  in  his  eyes 
it  merits  praise.)  Numerous  are  the  requests  that 
he  write  introductions  to  books;  that  he  address 
certain  women's  clubs;  that  he  visit  a  school,  or  a 
nature-study  club,  or  go  from  Dan  to  Beersheba 
to  hold  Burroughs  Days  —  each  writer,  as  a  rule, 
urging  his  claim  as  something  very  special,  to 
which  a  deaf  ear  should  not  be  turned.  Not  all  his 
correspondents  are  as  considerate  as  the  little  girl 
who  was  especially  eager  to  learn  his  attitude 
toward  snakes,  and  who,  after  writing  a  pretty 
letter,  ended  thus :  "  Inclosed  you  will  find  a  stamp, 
for  I  know  it  must  be  fearfully  expensive  and 
inconvenient  to  be  a  celebrity." 

Occasionally  he  is  a  little  severe  with  a  corre 
spondent,  especially  if  one  makes  a  preposterous 
statement,  or  draws  absurd  conclusions  from  faulty 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

observations.  But  he  is  always  fair.  The  following 
letter  explains  itself :  — 

Your  first  note  concerning  my  cat  and  hog  story 
made  me  as  mad  as  a  hornet,  which  my  reply  showed. 
Your  second  note  has  changed  me  into  a  lamb,  as  nearly 
as  a  fellow  of  seventy-five  can  become  one.  .  .  . 

I  have  read,  I  think,  every  book  you  ever  wrote,  and 
do  not  let  any  production  of  yours  escape  me;  and  I  have 
a  little  pile  of  framed  copies  of  your  inimitable  "My 
Own"  to  diffuse  among  people  at  Christmas;  and  all 
these  your  writings  make  me  wonder  and  shed  meta 
phorical  tears  to  think  that  you  are  such  a  heretic  about 
reason  in  animals.  But  even  Homer  nods;  and  it  is  said 
Roosevelt  has  moments  of  silence.  S.  C.  B. 

The  questions  his  readers  propound  are  some 
times  very  amusing.  A  physician  of  thirty  years' 
practice  asks  in  all  seriousness  how  often  the  lions 
bring  forth  their  young,  and  whether  it  is  true  that 
there  is  a  relation  between  the  years  in  which  they 
breed  and  the  increased  productivity  of  human 
beings.  One  correspondent  begs  Mr.  Burroughs  to 
tell  him  how  he  and  his  wife  and  Theodore  Roose 
velt  fold  their  hands  (as  though  the  last-named 
ever  folded  his) ,  declaring  he  can  read  their  char 
acters  with  surprising  accuracy  if  this  information 
is  forthcoming.  In  this  instance,  I  think,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  folded  his  hands  serenely,  leaving  his  cor 
respondent  waiting  for  the  valued  data. 

The  reader  will  doubtless  be  interested  to  see  the 

13 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

kind  of  letter  the  children  sometimes  get  from  their 
friend.  I  am  fortunate  in  having  one  written  in  1887 
to  a  rhetoric  class  in  Fulton,  New  York,  and  one  in 
1911,  written  to  children  in  the  New  York  City 
schools,  both  of  which  I  will  quote:  — 

WEST  PARK,  N.  Y.,  February  21.  1887 
MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIENDS,  — 

Your  teacher  Miss  Lawrence  has  presumed  that  I 
might  have  something  to  say  to  a  class  of  boys  and  girls 
studying  rhetoric,  and,  what  is  more,  that  I  might  be 
disposed  to  say  it.  What  she  tells  me  about  your  in 
terest  in  my  own  writings  certainly  interests  me  and 
makes  me  wish  I  might  speak  a  helpful  word  to  you. 
But  let  me  tell  you  that  very  little  conscious  rhetoric 
has  gone  into  the  composition  of  those  same  writings. 

Valuable  as  the  study  of  rhetoric  undoubtedly  is,  it 
can  go  but  a  little  way  in  making  you  successful  writers. 
I  think  I  have  got  more  help  as  an  author  from  going  a- 
fishing  than  from  any  textbook  or  classbook  I  ever  looked 
into.  Miss  Lawrence  will  not  thank  me  for  encour 
aging  you  to  play  truant,  but  if  you  take  Bacon's  or 
Emerson's  or  Arnold's  or  Cowley's  essays  with  you  and 
dip  into  them  now  and  then  while  you  are  waiting  for 
the  fish  to  bite,  she  will  detect  some  fresh  gleam  in  your 
composition  when  next  you  hand  one  in. 

There  is  no  way  to  learn  style  so  sure  as  by  familiarity 
with  nature,  and  by  study  of  the  great  authors.  Shake 
speare  can  teach  you  all  there  is  to  be  learned  of  the 
art  of  expression,  and  the  rhetoric  of  a  live  trout  leaping 
and  darting  with  such  ease  and  sureness  cannot  well  be 
beaten. 

14 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

What  you  really  have  in  your  heart,  what  you  are  in 
earnest  about,  how  easy  it  is  to  say  that! 

Miss  Lawrence  says  you  admire  my  essay  on  the 
strawberry.  Ah !  but  I  loved  the  strawberry  —  I 
loved  the  fields  where  it  grew,  I  loved  the  birds  that 
sang  there,  and  the  flowers  that  bloomed  there,  and  I 
loved  my  mother  who  sent  me  forth  to  gather  the 
berries;  I  loved  all  the  rural  sights  and  sounds,  I  felt 
near  them,  so  that  when,  in  after  years,  I  came  to  write 
my  essay  I  had  only  to  obey  the  old  adage  which  sums 
up  all  of  the  advice  which  can  be  given  in  these  mat 
ters,  "Look  in  thy  heart  and  write." 

The  same  when  I  wrote  about  the  apple.  I  had  apples 
in  my  blood  and  bones.  I  had  not  ripened  them  in  the 
haymow  and  bitten  them  under  the  seat  and  behind  my 
slate  so  many  times  in  school  for  nothing.  Every  apple 
tree  I  had  ever  shinned  up  and  dreamed  under  of  a 
long  summer  day,  while  a  boy,  helped  me  to  write  that 
paper.  The  whole  life  on  the  farm,  and  love  of  home  and 
of  father  and  mother,  helped  me  to  write  it. 

In  writing  your  compositions,  put  your  rhetoric  be* 
hind  you  and  tell  what  you  feel  and  know,  and  describe 
what  you  have  seen. 

All  writers  come  sooner  or  later  to  see  that  the  great 
thing  is  to  be  simple  and  direct;  only  thus  can  you  give 
a  vivid  sense  of  reality,  and  without  a  sense  of  reality 
the  finest  writing  is  mere  froth. 

Strive  to  write  sincerely,  as  you  speak  when  mad, 
or  when  in  love;  not  with  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  your 
mind,  but  with  the  whole  hand. 

A  noted  English  historian  [Freeman]  while  visiting 
Vassar  College  went  in  to  hear  the  rhetoric  class.  After 
the  exercises  were  over  he  said  to  the  professor,  "Why 

15 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

don't  you  teach  your  girls  to  spin  a  plain  yarn?  "  I  hope 
Miss  Lawrence  teaches  you  to  spin  a  plain  yarn.  There 
is  nothing  like  it.  The  figures  of  rhetoric  are  not  paper 
flowers  to  be  sewed  upon  the  texture  of  your  composi 
tion;  they  have  no  value  unless  they  are  real  flowers 
which  sprout  naturally  from  your  heart. 

What  force  in  the  reply  of  that  little  Parisian  girl 
I  knew  of!  She  offered  some  trinkets  for  sale  to  a  lady 
on  the  street.  "How  much  is  this?"  asked  the  lady, 
taking  up  some  article  from  the  little  girl's  basket. 
"Judge  for  yourself,  Madam,  I  have  tasted  no  food  since 
yesterday  morning."  Under  the  pressure  of  any  real 
feeling,  even  of  hunger,  our  composition  will  not  lack 
point. 

I  might  run  on  in  this  way  another  sheet,  but  I  will 
stop.  I  have  been  firing  at  you  in  the  dark,  —  a  boy  or 
a  girl  at  hand  is  worth  several  in  the  bush,  off  there  in 
Fulton,  —  but  if  any  of  my  words  tingle  in  your  ears 
and  set  you  to  thinking,  why  you  have  your  teacher 
to  thank  for  it. 

Very  truly  yours, 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 


LA  MANDA  PARK,  CAL.,  February  24, 1911 

MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIENDS, — 

A  hint  has  come  to  me  here  in  southern  California, 
where  I  have  been  spending  the  winter,  that  you  are 
planning  to  celebrate  my  birthday  —  my  seventy-fourth 
this  time,  and  would  like  a  word  from  me.  Let  me  begin 
by  saying  that  I  hope  that  each  one  of  you  will  at  least 
reach  my  age,  and  be  able  to  spend  a  winter,  or  several  of 
them,  in  southern  California,  and  get  as  much  pleasure 

16 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

out  of  it  as  I  have.  It  is  a  beautiful  land,  with  its  leagues 
of  orange  groves,  its  stately  plains,  its  park-like  expanses, 
its  bright,  clean  cities,  its  picturesque  hamlets,  and 
country  homes,  and  all  looked  down  upon  by  the  high, 
deeply  sculptured  mountains  and  snow-capped  peaks. 

Let  me  hope  also  that  when  you  have  reached  my  age 
you  will  be  as  well  and  as  young  as  I  am.  I  am  still 
a  boy  at  heart,  and  enjoy  almost  everything  that  boys 
do,  except  making  a  racket. 

Youth  and  age  have  not  much  to  do  with  years.  You 
are  young  so  long  as  you  keep  your  interest  in  things  and 
relish  your  daily  bread.  The  world  is  "full  of  a  number 
of  things,"  and  they  are  all  very  interesting. 

As  the  years  pass  I  think  my  interest  in  this  huge 
globe  upon  which  we  live,  and  in  the  life  which  it  holds, 
deepens.  An  active  interest  in  life  keeps  the  currents 
going  and  keeps  them  clear.  Mountain  streams  are  young 
streams;  they  sing  and  sparkle  as  they  go,  and  our  lives 
may  be  the  same.  With  me,  the  secret  of  my  youth  in 
age  is  the  simple  life  —  simple  food,  sound  sleep,  the 
open  air,  daily  work,  kind  thoughts,  love  of  nature,  and 
joy  and  contentment  in  the  world  in  which  I  live.  No 
excesses,  no  alcoholic  drinks,  no  tobacco,  no  tea  or  coffee, 
no  stimulants  stronger  than  water  and  food. 

I  have  had  a  happy  life.   I  have  gathered  my  grapes 
with  the  bloom  upon  them.  May  you  all  do  the  same. 
With  all  good  wishes, 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

"  I  have  no  genius  for  making  gifts,"  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  once  said  to  me,  but  how  his  works  belie  his 
Words!  In  these  letters,  and  in  many  others  which 

17 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

his  unknown  friends  have  received  from  him,  are 
gifts  of  rare  worth,  while  his  life  itself  has  been  a 
benefaction  to  us  all. 

One  day  in  recounting  some  of  the  propitious 
things  which  have  come  to  him  all  unsought,  he 
said:  "How  fortunate  I  have  always  been! 
My  name  should  have  been  ' Felix."'  But  since 
"John"  means  "the  gracious  gift  of  God,"  we 
are  content  that  he  was  named  John  Burroughs. 


THE   RETREAT  OF  A   POET-NATURALIST 

WE  are  coming  more  and  more  to  like  the 
savor  of  the  wild  and  the  unconventional. 
Perhaps  it  is  just  this  savor  or  suggestion  of  free 
fields  and  woods,  both  in  his  life  and  in  his  books, 
that  causes  so  many  persons  to  seek  out  John  Bur 
roughs  in  his  retreat  among  the  trees  and  rocks  on 
the  hills  that  skirt  the  western  bank  of  the  Hudson. 
To  Mr.  Burroughs  more  perhaps  than  to  any  other 
living  American  might  be  applied  these  words  in 
Genesis :  "  See,  the  smell  of  my  son  is  as  the  smell  of 
a  field  which  the  Lord  hath  blessed"  —  so  redolent 
of  the  soil  and  of  the  hardiness  and  plenitude  of 
rural  things  is  the  influence  that  emanates  from 
him.  His  works  are  as  the  raiment  of  the  man,  and 
to  them  adheres  something  as  racy  and  wholesome 
as  is  yielded  by  the  fertile  soil. 

We  are  prone  to  associate  the  names  of  our  three 
most  prominent  literary  naturalists, —  Gilbert 
White,  of  England,  and  Thoreau  and  John  Bur 
roughs,  of  America,  —  men  who  have  been  so  en 
rapport  with  nature  that,  while  ostensibly  only  dis 
closing  the  charms  of  their  mistress,  they  have  at 
the  same  time  subtly  communicated  much  of  their 

19 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

own  wide  knowledge  of  nature,  and  permanently 
enriched  our  literature  as  well. 

In  thinking  of  Gilbert  White  one  invariably 
thinks  also  of  Selborne,  his  open-air  parish;  in 
thinking  of  Thoreau  one  as  naturally  recalls  his 
humble  shelter  on  the  banks  of  Walden  Pond;  and 
it  is  coming  to  pass  that  in  thinking  of  John  Bur 
roughs  one  thinks  likewise  of  his  hidden  farm  high 
on  the  wooded  hills  that  overlook  the  Hudson, 
nearly  opposite  Poughkeepsie.  It  is  there  that  he 
has  built  himself  a  picturesque  retreat,  a  rustic 
house  named  Slabsides.  I  find  that,  to  many,  the 
word  "Slabsides"  gives  the  impression  of  a  dilapi 
dated,  ramshackle  kind  of  place.  This  impression 
is  an  incorrect  one.  The  cabin  is  a  well-built  two- 
story  structure,  its  uneuphonious  but  fitting  name 
having  been  given  it  because  its  outer  walls  are 
formed  of  bark-covered  slabs.  "My  friends  fre 
quently  complain,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs,  "  because 
I  have  not  given  my  house  a  prettier  name,  but 
this  name  just  expresses  the  place,  and  the  place 
just  meets  the  want  that  I  felt  for  something  simple, 
homely,  secluded  —  something  with  the  bark  on." 

Both  Gilbert  White  and  Thoreau  became  identi 
fied  with  their  respective  environments  almost  to 
the  exclusion  of  other  fields.  The  minute  observa 
tions  of  White,  and  his  records  of  them,  extending 
over  forty  years,  were  almost  entirely  confined  to 

20 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

the  district  of  Selborne.  He  says  that  he  finds  that 
"that  district  produces  the  greatest  variety  which 
is  the  most  examined."  The  thoroughness  with 
which  he  examined  his  own  locality  is  attested  by 
his  "Natural  History  of  Selborne."  Thoreau  was 
such  a  stay-at-home  that  he  refused  to  go  to  Paris 
lest  he  miss  something  of  interest  in  Concord.  "I 
have  traveled  a  good  deal  in  Concord,"  he  says 
in  his  droll  way.  And  one  of  the  most  delicious 
instances  of  provinciality  that  I  ever  came  across 
is  Thoreau's  remark  on  returning  Dr.  Kane's  "Arc 
tic  Explorations"  to  a  friend  who  had  lent  him  the 
book  —  "Most  of  the  phenomena  therein  recorded 
are  to  be  observed  about  Concord."  In  thinking 
of  John  Burroughs,  however,  the  thought  of  the 
author's  mountain  home  as  the  material  and  heart 
of  his  books  does  not  come  so  readily  to  conscious 
ness.  For  most  of  us  who  have  felt  the  charm  of  his 
lyrical  prose,  both  in  his  outdoor  books  and  in  his 
"Indoor  Studies,"  were  familiar  with  him  as  an 
author  long  before  we  knew  there  was  a  Slabsides 
—  long  before  there  was  one,  in  fact,  since  he  has 
been  leading  his  readers  to  nature  for  fifty  years, 
while  the  picturesque  refuge  we  are  now  coming  to 
associate  with  him  has  been  in  existence  only  about 
fifteen  years. 

Our  poet-naturalist  seems  to  have  appropriated 
all  outdoors  for  his  stamping-ground.  He  has  given 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

us  in  his  limpid  prose  intimate  glimpses  of  the  hills 
and  streams  and  pastoral  farms  of  his  native  coun 
try;  has  taken  us  down  the  Pepacton,  the  stream 
of  his  boyhood;  we  have  traversed  with  him  the 
"Heart  of  the  Southern  Catskills,"  and  the  valleys 
of  the  Neversink  and  the  Beaverkill;  we  have  sat 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  and  sailed  down 
the  Saguenay;  we  have  had  a  glimpse  of  the  Blue 
Grass  region,  and  "A  Taste  of  Maine  Birch" 
(true,  Thoreau  gave  us  this,  also,  and  other  "Excur 
sions"  as  well) ;  we  have  walked  with  him  the  lanes 
of  "Mellow  England";  journeyed  "In  the  Carlyle 
Country  " ;  marveled  at  the  azure  glaciers  of  Alaska; 
wandered  in  the  perpetual  summerland  of  Jamaica; 
camped  with  him  and  the  Strenuous  One  in  the 
Yellowstone;  looked  in  awe  and  wonder  at  that 
"Divine  Abyss,"  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colo 
rado;  felt  the  "Spell  of  Yosemite,"  and  idled  with 
him  under  the  sun-steeped  skies  of  Hawaii  and 
by  her  morning-glory  seas. 

Our  essayist  is  thus  seen  not  to  be  untraveled, 
yet  he  is  no  wanderer.  No  man  ever  had  the  home 
feeling  stronger  than  has  he;  none  is  more  com 
pletely  under  the  spell  of  a  dear  and  familiar  local 
ity.  Somewhere  he  has  said:  "Let  a  man  stick  his 
staff  into  the  ground  anywhere  and  say,  'This  is 
home,'  and  describe  things  from  that  point  of  view, 
or  as  they  stand  related  to  that  spot,  —  the 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

weather,  the  fauna,  the  flora, — and  his  account 
shall  have  an  interest  to  us  it  could  not  have  if  not 
thus  located  and  defined." 

Before  hunting  out  Mr.  Burroughs  in  his  moun 
tain  hermitage,  let  us  glance  at  his  conventional 
abode,  Riverby,  at  West  Park,  Ulster  County,  New 
York.  This  has  been  his  home  since  1874.  Having 
chosen  this  place  by  the  river,  he  built  his  house 
of  stone  quarried  from  the  neighboring  hills,  and 
finished  it  with  the  native  woods;  he  planted  a  vine 
yard  on  the  sloping  hillside,  and  there  he  has  suc 
cessfully  combined  the  business  of  grape-culture 
with  his  pursuits  and  achievements  as  a  literary 
naturalist.  More  than  half  his  books  have  been 
written  since  he  has  dwelt  at  Riverby,  the  earlier 
ones  having  appeared  when  he  was  a  clerk  in  the 
Treasury  Department  in  Washington,  an  atmos 
phere  supposedly  unfriendly  to  literary  work.  It 
was  not  until  he  gave  up  his  work  in  Washing 
ton,  and  his  later  position  as  bank  examiner 
in  the  eastern  part  of  New  York  State,  that  he 
seemed  to  come  into  his  own.  Business  life,  he  had 
long  known,  could  never  be  congenial  to  him;  liter 
ary  pursuits  alone  were  insufficient;  the  long  line 
of  yeoman  ancestry  back  of  him  cried  out  for  recog 
nition;  he  felt  the  need  of  closer  contact  with  the 
soil;  of  having  land  to  till  and  cultivate.  This  need, 
an  ancestral  one,  was  as  imperative  as  his  need  of 

23 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

literary  expression,  an  individual  one.  Hear  what 
he  says  after  having  ploughed  in  his  new  vineyard 
for  the  first  time:  "How  I  soaked  up  the  sunshine 
to-day!  At  night  I  glowed  all  over;  my  whole  being 
had  had  an  earth  bath;  such  a  feeling  of  freshly 
ploughed  land  in  every  cell  of  my  brain.  The  fur 
row  had  struck  in;  the  sunshine  had  photographed 
it  upon  my  soul."  Later  he  built  him  a  little  study 
somewhat  apart  from  his  dwelling,  to  which  he 
could  retire  and  muse  and  write  whenever  the  mood 
impelled  him.  This  little  one-room  study,  covered 
with  chestnut  bark,  is  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  which 
slopes  toward  the  river;  it  commands  an  extended 
view  of  the  Hudson.  But  even  this  did  not  meet 
his  requirements.  The  formality  and  routine  of 
conventional  life  palled  upon  him;  the  expanse  of 
the  Hudson,  the  noise  of  railway  and  steamboat 
wearied  him;  he  craved  something  more  retired, 
more  primitive,  more  homely.  "You  cannot  have 
the  same  kind  of  attachment  and  sympathy  for  a 
great  river;  it  does  not  flow  through  your  affections 
like  a  lesser  stream,"  he  says,  thinking,  no  doubt, 
of  the  trout-brooks  that  thread  his  father's  farm,  of 
Montgomery  Hollow  Stream,  of  the  Red  Kill,  and 
of  others  that  his  boyhood  knew.  Accordingly  he 
cast  about  for  some  sequestered  spot  in  which  to 
make  himself  a  hermitage. 

During  his  excursions  in  the  vicinity  of  West 
24 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

Park,  Mr.  Burroughs  had  lingered  oftenest  in  the 
hills  back  of,  and  parallel  with,  the  Hudson,  and 
here  he  finally  chose  the  site  for  his  rustic  cabin. 
He  had  fished  and  rowed  in  Black  Pond,  sat  by  its 
falls  in  the  primitive  forest,  sometimes  with  a  book, 
sometimes  with  his  son,  or  with  some  other  hunter 
or  fisher  of  congenial  tastes;  and  on  one  memorable 
day  in  April,  years  agone,  he  had  tarried  there  with 
Walt  Whitman.  There,  seated  on  a  fallen  tree, 
Whitman  wrote  this  description  of  the  place  which 
was  later  printed  in  "Specimen  Days":  — 

I  jot  this  memorandum  in  a  wild  scene  of  woods 
and  hills  where  we  have  come  to  visit  a  waterfall.  I 
never  saw  finer  or  more  copious  hemlocks,  many  of 
them  large,  some  old  and  hoary.  Such  a  sentiment  to 
them,  secretive,  shaggy,  what  I  call  weather-beaten,  and 
let-alone  —  a  rich  underlay  of  ferns,  yew  sprouts  and 
mosses,  beginning  to  be  spotted  with  the  early  summer 
wild  flowers.  Enveloping  all,  the  monotone  and  liquid 
gurgle  from  the  hoarse,  impetuous,  copious  fall  —  the 
greenish-tawny,  darkly  transparent  waters  plunging 
with  velocity  down  the  rocks,  with  patches  of  milk- 
white  foam  —  a  stream  of  hurrying  amber,  thirty  feet 
wide,  risen  far  back  in  the  hills  and  woods,  now  rushing 
with  volume  —  every  hundred  rods  a  fall,  and  some 
times  three  or  four  in  that  distance.  A  primitive  forest, 
druidical,  solitary,  and  savage  —  not  ten  visitors  a 
year  —  broken  rocks  everywhere,  shade  overhead,  thick 
underfoot  with  leaves  —  a  just  palpable  wild  and  deli 
cate  aroma. 

25 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

"Not  ten  visitors  a  year"  may  have  been  true 
when  Whitman  described  the  place,  but  we  know  it 
is  different  now.  Troops  of  Vassar  girls  come  to 
visit  the  hermit  of  Slabsides,  and  are  taken  to  these 
falls ;  nature-lovers,  and  those  who  only  think 
themselves  nature-lovers,  come  from  far  and  near; 
Burroughs  clubs,  boys'  schools,  girls'  schools,  pe 
destrians,  cyclists,  artists,  authors,  reporters,  poets, 
—  young  and  old,  renowned  and  obscure,  —  from 
April  till  November  seek  out  this  lover  of  nature, 
who  is  a  lover  of  human  nature  as  well,  who  gives 
himself  and  his  time  generously  to  those  who  find 
him.  When  the  friends  of  Socrates  asked  him 
where  they  should  bury  him,  he  said:  "You  may 
bury  me  if  you  can  find  me."  Not  all  who  seek  John 
Burroughs  really  find  him;  he  does  not  mix  well 
with  every  newcomer;  one  must  either  have  some 
thing  of  Mr.  Burroughs's  own  cast  of  mind,  or  else 
be  of  a  temperament  capable  of  genuine  sympathy 
with  him,  in  order  to  find  the  real  man.  He  with 
draws  into  his  shell  before  persons  of  uncongenial 
temperament;  to  such  he  can  never  really  speak — 
they  see  Slabsides,  but  they  don't  see  Burroughs. 
He  is,  however,  never  curt  or  discourteous  to  any 
one.  Unlike  Thoreau,  who  "put  the  whole  of  na 
ture  between  himself  and  his  fellows,"  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  leads  his  fellows  to  nature,  although  it  is 
sometimes,  doubtless,  with  the  feeling  that  one  can 

26 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

lead  a  horse  to  water,  but  can't  make  him  drink;  for 
of  all  the  sightseers  that  journey  to  Slabsides  there 
must  of  necessity  be  many  that  " Oh ! "  and  "Ah ! " 
a  good  deal,  but  never  really  get  further  in  their 
study  of  nature  than  that.  Still,  it  can  scarcely  fail 
to  be  salutary  even  to  these  to  get  away  from  the 
noise  and  the  strife  in  city  and  town,  and  see  how 
sane,  simple,  and  wholesome  life  is  when  lived  in 
a  sane  and  simple  and  wholesome  way.  Somehow 
it  helps  one  to  get  a  clearer  sense  of  the  relative 
value  of  things,  it  makes  one  ashamed  of  his  petty 
pottering  over  trifles,  to  witness  this  exemplifica 
tion  of  the  plain  living  and  high  thinking  which  so 
many  preach  about,  and  so  few  practice. 

"The  thing  which  a  man's  nature  calls  him  to 
do  —  what  else  so  well  worth  doing?"  asks  this 
writer.  One's  first  impression  after  glancing  about 
this  well-built  cabin,  with  the  necessities  of  body 
and  soul  close  at  hand,  is  a  vicarious  satisfaction 
that  here,  at  least,  is  one  who  has  known  what  he 
wanted  to  do  and  has  done  it.  We  are  glad  that 
Gilbert  White  made  pastoral  calls  on  his  outdoor 
parishioners,  —  the  birds,  the  toads,  the  turtles,  the 
snails,  and  the  earthworms, —  although  we  often 
wonder  if  he  evinced  a  like  conscientiousness 
toward  his  human  parishioners;  we  are  glad  that 
Thoreau  left  the  manufacture  of  lead  pencils  to 
become,  as  Emerson  jocosely  complained,  "  the 

27 


OUF  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

leader  of  a  huckleberry  party",  —  glad  because 
these  were  the  things  their  natures  called  them  to 
do,  and  in  so  doing  they  best  enriched  their  fellows. 
They  literally  went  away  that  'they  might  come 
to  us  in  a  closer,  truer  way  than  had  they  tarried  in 
our  midst.  It  must  have  been  in  answer  to  a  similar 
imperative  need  of  his  own  that  John  Burroughs 
chose  to  hie  himself  to  the  secluded  yet  accessible 
spot  where  his  mountain  cabin  is  built. 

"As  the  bird  feathers  her  nest  with  down  plucked 
from  her  own  breast,"  says  Mr.  Burroughs  in  one 
of  his  early  essays,  "so  one's  spirit  must  shed  itself 
upon  its  environment  before  it  can  brood  and  be  at 
all  content."  Here  at  Slabsides  one  feels  that  its 
master  does  brood  and  is  content.  It  is  an  ideal 
location  for  a  man  of  his  temperament;  it  affords 
him  the  peace  and  seclusion  he  desires,  yet  is  not  so 
remote  that  he  is  shut  off  from  human  fellowship. 
For  he  is  no  recluse;  his  sympathies  are  broad  and 
deep.  Unlike  Thoreau,  who  asserts  that  "you  can 
not  have  a  deep  sympathy  with  both  man  and 
nature,"  and  that  "those  qualities  that  bring  you 
near  to  the  one  estrange  you  from  the  other,"  Mr, 
Burroughs  likes  his  kind;  he  is  doubtless  the  most 
accessible  of  all  notable  American  writers,  —  a  fact 
which  is  perhaps  a  drawback  to  him  in  his  literary 
work,  his  submission  to  being  hunted  out  often 
being  taken  advantage  of,  no  doubt,  by  persons 

28 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

who  are  in  no  real  sense  nature-lovers,  but  who  go 
to  his  retreat  merely  to  see  the  hermit  in  hiding 
there. 

After  twelve  years'  acquaintance  with  his  books 
I  yielded  to  the  impulse,  often  felt  before,  to  tell 
Mr.  Burroughs  what  a  joy  his  writings  had  been 
to  me.  In  answering  my  letter  he  said:  "The 
genuine  responses  that  come  to  an  author  from  his 
unknown  readers,  judging  from  my  own  experi 
ence,  are  always  very  welcome.  It  is  no  intrusion 
but  rather  an  inspiration."  A  gracious  invitation 
to  make  him  a  visit  came  later. 

The  visit  was  made  in  the  "month  of  tall  weeds," 
in  September,  1901.  Arriving  at  West  Park,  the 
little  station  on  the  West  Shore  Railway,  I  found 
Mr.  Burroughs  in  waiting.  The  day  was  gray  and 
somewhat  forbidding;  not  so  the  author's  greeting; 
his  almost  instant  recognition  and  his  quiet  wel 
come  made  me  feel  that  I  had  always  known  him. 
It  was  like  going  home  to  hear  him  say  quietly,  "So 
you  are  here  —  really  here,"  as  he  took  my  hand. 
The  feeling  of  comradeship  that  I  had  experienced 
in  reading  his  books  was  realized  in  his  presence. 
With  market-basket  on  arm,  he  started  off  at  a 
brisk  pace  along  the  country  road,  first  looking  to 
see  if  I  was  well  shod,  as  he  warned  me  that  it  was 
quite  a  climb  to  Slabsides. 

His  kindly  face  was  framed  with  snowy  hair. 
29 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

He  was  dressed  in  olive-brown  clothes,  and  "his 
old  experienced  coat "  blended  in  color  with  the 
tree-trunks  and  the  soil  with  which  one  felt  sure 
it  had  often  been  in  close  communion. 

We  soon  left  the  country  road  and  struck  into  a 
woodland  path,  going  up  through  quiet,  cathedral- 
like  woods  till  we  came  to  an  abrupt  rocky  stair 
way  which  my  companion  climbed  with  ease  and 
agility  despite  his  five-and-sixty  years. 

I  paused  to  examine  some  mushrooms,  and,  find 
ing  a  species  that  I  knew  to  be  edible,  began  nib 
bling  it.  "Don't  taste  that,"  he  said  imperatively; 
but  I  laughed  and  nibbled  away.  With  a  mingling 
of  anxiety  and  curiosity  he  inquired:  "Are  you 
sure  it's  all  right?  Do  you  really  like  them?  I 
never  could;  they  are  so  uncanny  —  the  gnomes  or 
evil  genii  or  hobgoblins  of  the  vegetable  world  — 
I  give  them  a  wide  berth." 

He  pointed  to  a  rock  in  the  distance  where  he 
said  he  sometimes  sat  and  sulked.  "  You  sulk,  and 
own  up  to  it,  too?"  I  asked.  "Yes,  and  pwn  up  to 
it,  too.  Why  not?  Don't  you?" 

"Are  there  any  bee-trees  around  here?"  I  ques 
tioned,  remembering  that  in  one  of  his  essays  he  has 
said:  "If  you  would  know  the  delight  of  bee-hunt 
ing,  and  how  many  sweets  such  a  trip  yields  be 
sides  honey,  come  with  me  some  bright,  warm,  late 
September  or  early  October  day.  It  is  the  golden 

30 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

season  of  the  year,  and  any  errand  or  pursuit  that 
takes  us  abroad  upon  the  hills,  or  by  the  painted 
woods  and  along  the  amber-colored  streams  at 
such  a  time  is  enough."  Here  was  a  September 
day  if  not  a  bright  one,  and  here  were  the  painted 
woods,  and  somehow  I  felt  half  aggrieved  that  he 
did  not  immediately  propose  going  in  quest  of 
wild  honey.  Instead  he  only  replied :  "  I  don't  know 
whether  there  are  bee-trees  around  here  now  or  not. 
I  used  to  find  a  good  deal  of  wild  honey  over  at  a 
place  that  I  spoke  of  casually  as  Mount  Hymettus, 
and  was  much  surprised  later  to  find  they  had  so 
put  it  down  on  the  maps  of  this  region.  Wild  honey 
is  delectable,  but  I  pursued  that  subject  till  I 
sucked  it  dry.  I  have  n't  done  much  about  it  these 
later  years."  So  we  are  not  to  gather  wild  honey,  I 
find;  but  what  of  that  ? —  am  I  not  actually  walking 
in  the  woods  with  John  Burroughs? 

Up,  up  we  climb,  an  ascent  of  about  a  mile  and  a 
quarter  from  the  railway  station.  Emerging  from 
the  woods,  we  come  rather  suddenly  upon  a  re 
claimed  rock-girt  swamp,  the  most  of  which  is 
marked  off  in  long  green  lines  of  celery.  This  swamp 
was  formerly  a  lake-bottom;  its  rich  black  soil  and 
three  perennial  springs  near  by  decided  Mr.  Bur- 
orughs  to  drain  and  reclaim  the  soil  and  compel  it 
to  yield  celery  and  other  garden  produce. 

Nestling  under  gray  rocks,  on  the  edge  of  the 
31 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

celery  garden,  embowered  in  forest  trees,  is  the 
vine-covered  cabin,  Slabsides.  What  a  feeling  of 
peace  and  aloofness  comes  over  one  in  looking  up 
at  the  encircling  hills!  The  few  houses  scattered 
about  on  other  rocks  are  at  a  just  comfortable  dis 
tance  to  be  neighborly,  but  not  too  neighborly. 
Would  one  be  lonesome  here?  Aye,  lonesome,  but — 

"Not  melancholy,  —  no,  for  it  is  green 
And  bright  and  fertile,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires; 
In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 
How  tenderly  protected!" 

Mr.  Burroughs  has  given  to  those  who  contem 
plate  building  a  house  some  sound  advice  in  his 
essay  "  Roof-Tree."  There  he  has  said  that  a 
man  makes  public  proclamation  of  what  are  his 
tastes  and  his  manners,  or  his  want  of  them,  when 
he  builds  his  house;  that  if  we  can  only  keep  our 
pride  and  vanity  in  abeyance  and  forget  that  all 
the  world  is  looking  on,  we  may  be  reasonably  sure 
of  having  beautiful  houses.  Tried  by  his  own  test, 
he  has  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  his  taste  or  his 
manners  when  Slabsides  is  critically  examined. 
Blending  with  its  surroundings,  it  is  coarse,  strong, 
and  substantial  without;  within  it  is  snug  and  com 
fortable;  its  wide  door  bespeaks  hospitality;  its 
low,  broad  roof,  protection  and  shelter ;  its  capacious 
hearth,  cheer;  all  its  appointments  for  the  bodily 

32 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

needs  express  simplicity  and  frugality;  and  its 
books  and  magazines,  and  the  conversation  of  the 
host  —  are  they  not  there  for  the  needs  that  bread 
alone  will  not  supply? 

"Mr.  Burroughs,  why  don't  you  paint  things?  " 
asked  a  little  boy  of  four,  who  had  been  spending 
a  happy  day  at  Slabsides,  but  who,  at  nightfall, 
while  nestling  in  the  author's  arms,  seemed  sud 
denly  to  realize  that  this  rustic  house  was  very  dif 
ferent  from  anything  he  had  seen  before.  "I  don't 
like  things  painted,  my  little  man;  that  is  just  why 
I  came  up  here  —  to  get  away  from  paint  and 
polish  —  just  as  you  liked  to  wear  your  overalls 
to-day  and  play  on  the  grass,  instead  of  keeping  on 
that  pretty  dress  your  mother  wanted  you  to  keep 
clean."  "Oh!"  said  the  child  in  such  a  knowing 
tone  that  one  felt  he  understood.  But  that  is 
another  story. 

The  time  of  which  I  am  speaking  —  that  gray 
September  day  —  what  a  memorable  day  it  was ! 
How  cheery  the  large,  low  room  looked  when  the 
host  replenished  the  smouldering  fire!  "I  some 
times  come  up  here  even  in  winter,  build  a  fire,  and 
stay  for  an  hour  or  more,  with  long,  sad,  sweet 
thoughts  and  musings,"  he  said.  He  is  justly  proud 
of  the  huge  stone  fireplace  and  chimney  which  he 
himself  helped  to  construct;  he  also  helped  to  hew 
the  trees  and  build  the  house.  "What  joy  went 

33 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

into  the  building  of  this  retreat!  I  never  expect  to 
be  so  well  content  again."  Then,  musing,  he  added: 
"It  is  a  comfortable,  indolent  life  I  lead  here;  I  read 
a  little,  write  a  little,  and  dream  a  good  deal.  Here 
the  sun  does  not  rise  so  early  as  it  does  down  at 
Riverby.  'Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer'  is  not  put 
to  rout  so  soon  by  the  screaming  whistles,  the 
thundering  trains,  and  the  necessary  rules  and 
regulations  of  well-ordered  domestic  machinery. 
Here  I  really  'loaf  and  invite  my  soul/  Yes,  I  am 
often  melancholy,  and  hungry  for  companionship 
—  not  in  the  summer  months,  no,  but  in  the  quiet 
evenings  before  the  fire,  with  only  Silly  Sally  to 
share  my  long,  long  thoughts;  she  is  very  attentive, 
but  I  doubt  if  she  notices  when  I  sigh.  She  does  n't 
even  heed  me  when  I  tell  her  that  ornithology  is  a 
first-rate  pursuit  for  men,  but  a  bad  one  for  cats.  I 
suspect  that  she  studies  the  birds  with  greater  care 
than  I  do ;  for  now  I  can  get  all  I  want  of  a  bird  and 
let  him  remain  in  the  bush,  but  Silly  Sally  is  & 
thorough-going  ornithologist;  she  must  engage  in 
all  the  feather-splittings  that  the  ornithologists  do, 
and  she  is  n't  satisfied  until  she  has  thoroughly  dis 
sected  and  digested  her  material,  and  has  all  the 
dry  bones  of  the  subject  laid  bare." 

We  sat  before  the  fire  while  Mr.  Burroughs 
talked  of  nature,  of  books,  of  men  and  women 
whose  lives  or  books,  or  both,  have  closely  touched 

34 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

his  own.  He  talked  chiefly  of  Emerson  and  Whit 
man,  the  men  to  whom  he  seems  to  owe  the  most, 
the  two  whom  most  his  soul  has  loved. 

"I  remember  the  first  time  I  saw  Emerson,"  he 
said  musingly;  "it  was  at  West  Point  during  the 
June  examinations  of  the  cadets.  Emerson  had 
been  appointed  by  President  Lincoln  as  one  of  the 
board  of  visitors.  I  had  been  around  there  in  the 
afternoon,  and  had  been  peculiarly  interested  in 
a  man  whose  striking  face  and  manner  challenged 
my  attention.  I  did  not  hear  him  speak,  but 
watched  him  going  about  with  a  silk  hat,  much  too 
large,  pushed  back  on  his  head;  his  sharp  eyes  peer 
ing  into  everything,  curious  about  everything. 
'Here,'  said  I  to  myself,  *  is  a  countryman  who  has 
got  away  from  home,  and  intends  to  see  all  that 
is  going  on*  —  such  an  alert,  interested  air!  That 
evening  a  friend  came  to  me  and  in  a  voice  full  of 
awe  and  enthusiasm  said,  'Emerson  is  in  town!' 
Then  I  knew  who  the  alert,  sharp-eyed  stranger 
was.  We  went  to  the  meeting  and  met  our  hero, 
and  the  next  day  walked  and  talked  with  him.  He 
seemed  glad  to  get  away  from  those  old  fogies  and 
talk  with  us  young  men.  I  carried  his  valise  to 
the  boat-landing  —  I  was  in  the  seventh  heaven 
of  delight." 

"I  saw  him  several  years  later,"  he  continued, 
"soon  after  'Wake-Robin'  was  published;  he  men- 

35 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

tionedit  and  said:  'Capital  title,  capital !'  I  don't 
suppose  he  had  read  much  besides  the  title." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  him,"  he  said  with  a  sigh, 
"was  at  Holmes's  seventieth-birthday  breakfast, 
in  Boston.  But  then  his  mind  was  like  a  splendid 
bridge  with  one  span  missing;  he  had  —  what  is  it 
you  doctors  call  it?  —  aphasia,  yes,  that  is  it  — 
he  had  to  grope  for  his  words.  But  what  a  serene, 
godlike  air!  He  was  like  a  plucked  eagle  tarrying 
in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  lesser  birds.  He  would 
sweep  the  assembly  with  that  searching  glance,  as 
much  as  to  say,  *  What  is  all  this  buzzing  and  chirp 
ing  about?'  Holmes  was  as  brilliant  and  scintil 
lating  as  ever;  sparks  of  wit  would  greet  every 
newcomer,  flying  out  as  the  sparks  fly  from  that 
log.  Whittier  was  there,  too,  looking  nervous  and 
uneasy  and  very  much  out  of  his  element.  But  he 
stood  next  to  Emerson,  prompting  his  memory  and 
supplying  the  words  his  voice  refused  to  utter. 
When  I  was  presented,  Emerson  said  in  a  slow, 
questioning  way,  'Burroughs — Burroughs? '  '  Why, 
thee  knows  him,9  said  Whittier,  jogging  his  memory 
with  some  further  explanation;  but  I  doubt  if  he 
then  remembered  anything  about  me." 

It  was  not  such  a  leap  from  the  New  England 
writers  to  Whitman  as  one  might  imagine.  Mr. 
Burroughs  spoke  of  Emerson's  prompt  and  gener 
ous  indorsement  of  the  first  edition  of  "Leaves  of 

36 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

Grass  " :  "  I  give  you  joy  of  your  free,  brave  thought. 
I  have  great  joy  in  it."  This  and  much  else  Emer 
son  had  written  in  a  letter  to  Whitman.  "It  is 
the  charter  of  an  emperor!"  Dana  had  said  when 
Whitman  showed  him  the  letter.  The  poet's  head 
was  undoubtedly  a  little  turned  by  praise  from 
such  a  source,  and  much  to  Emerson's  annoyance, 
the  letter  was  published  in  the  next  edition  of  the 
"Leaves."  Still  Emerson  and  Whitman  remained 
friends  to  the  last. 

"Whitman  was  a  child  of  the  sea,"  said  Mr. 
Burroughs;  "nurtured  by  the  sea,  cradled  by  the 
sea;  he  gave  one  the  same  sense  of  invigoration 
and  of  illimitableness  that  we  get  from  the  sea.  He 
never  looked  so  much  at  home  as  when  on  the  shore 
—  his  gray  clothes,  gray  hair,  and  far-seeing  blue- 
gray  eyes  blending  with  the  surroundings.  And  his 
thoughts  —  the  same  broad  sweep,  the  elemental 
force  and  grandeur  and  all-embracingness  of  the 
impartial  sea ! " 

"Whitman  never  hurried,"  Mr.  Burroughs  con 
tinued;  "he  always  seemed  to  have  infinite  time 
at  his  disposal."  It  brought  Whitman  very  near 
to  hear  Mr.  Burroughs  say,  "He  used  to  take 
Sunday  breakfasts  with  us  in  Washington.  Mrs. 
Burroughs  makes  capital  pancakes,  and  Walt  was 
very  fond  of  them;  but  he  was  always  late  to  break 
fast.  The  coffee  would  boil  over,  the  griddle  would 

37 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

smoke,  car  after  car  would  go  jingling  by,  and  no 
Walt.  Sometimes  it  got  to  be  a  little  trying  to  have 
domestic  arrangements  so  interfered  with;  but  a 
car  would  stop  at  last,  Walt  would  roll  off  it,  and 
saunter  up  to  the  door  —  cheery,  vigorous,  serene, 
putting  every  one  in  good  humor.  And  how  he 
ate!  He  radiated  health  and  hopefulness.  This  is 
what  made  his  work  among  the  sick  soldiers  in 
Washington  of  such  inestimable  value.  Every  one 
that  came  into  personal  relations  with  him  felt 
his  rare  compelling  charm." 

It  was  all  very  well,  this  talk  about  the  poets, 
but  climbing  "break-neck  stairs"  on  our  way 
thither  had  given  the  guest  an  appetite,  and  the 
host  as  well;  and  these  appetites  had  to  be  appeased 
by  something  less  transcendental  than  a  feast  of 
reason.  Scarcely  interrupting  his  engaging  mono 
logue,  Mr.  Burroughs  went  about  his  preparations 
for  dinner,  doing  things  deftly  and  quietly,  all 
unconscious  that  there  was  anything  peculiar  in 
this  sight  to  the  spectator.  Potatoes  and  onions 
were  brought  in  with  the  earth  still  on  them,  their 
bed  was  made  under  the  ashes,  and  we  sat  down  to 
more  talk.  After  a  while  he  took  a  chicken  from  the 
market-basket,  spread  it  on  a  toaster,  and  broiled 
it  over  the  coals;  he  put  the  dishes  on  the  hearth 
to  warm,  washed  the  celery,  parched  some  grated 
corn  over  the  coals  while  the  chicken  was  broiling, 

38 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

talking  the  while  of  Tolstoy  and  of  Maeterlinck, 
of  orioles  and  vireos,  of  whatever  we  happened 
to  touch  upon.  He  avowed  that  he  was  envious  of 
Maeterlinck  on  account  of  his  poetic  "Life  of  the 
Bee."  "I  ought  to  have  written  that,"  he  said;  "I 
know  the  bee  well  enough,  but  I  could  never  do 
anything  so  exquisite." 

Parts  of  Maeterlinck's  "Treasures  of  the  Hum 
ble,"  and  "Wisdom  and  Destiny,"  he  "couldn't 
stand."  I  timorously  mentioned  his  chapter  on 
"Silence." 

"'Silence'?  Oh,  yes;  silence  is  very  well  —  some 
kinds  of  it ;  but  why  make  such  a  noise  about  silence  ?  " 
he  asked  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

When  the  chicken  was  nearly  ready,  I  moved 
toward  the  dining-table,  on  which  some  dishes 
were  piled.  As  though  in  answer  to  my  thought,  he 
said:  — 

"Yes,  if  there's  anything  you  can  do  there,  you 
may."  So  I  began  arranging  the  table. 

"Where  are  my  knife  and  fork?" 

"In  the  cupboard,"  he  answered  without  cere 
mony. 

We  brought  the  good  things  from  the  hearth, 
hot  and  delicious,  and  sat  down  to  a  dinner  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  an  Adirondack  guide, 
—  and  when  one  has  said  this,  what  more  need  one 
say? 

39 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

In  helping  myself  to  the  celery  I  took  an  outside 
piece.  Mine  host  reached  over  and,  putting  a  big 
white  centre  of  celery  on  my  plate,  said:  "What's 
the  use  taking  the  outside  of  things  when  one  can 
have  the  heart?"  This  is  typical  of  John  Bur- 
roughs's  life  as  well  as  his  art  —  he  has  let  extra 
neous  things,  conventionalities,  and  non-essentials 
go;  has  gone  to  the  heart  of  things.  It  is  this  that 
has  made  his  work  so  vital. 

As  we  arose  from  the  table,  I  began  picking  up 
the  dishes. 

"You  are  going  to  help,  are  you?" 

"Of  course,"  I  replied;  "where  is  your  dish 
cloth?"  —  a  natural  question,  as  any  woman  will 
agree,  but  what  a  consternation  it  evoked!  A  just 
perceptible  delay,  a  fumbling  among  pots  and  pans, 
and  he  came  toward  me  with  a  most  apologetic 
air,  and  with  the  sorriest-looking  rag  I  had  ever 
seen  —  its  narrow  circumference  encircling  a  very 
big  hole. 

"Is  that  the  best  dish-cloth  you  have?"  I 
asked. 

For  answer  he  held  it  up  in  front  of  his  face, 
but  the  most  of  it  being  hole,  it  did  not  hide  the 
eyes  that  twinkled  so  merrily  that  my  housewifely 
reproof  was  effectually  silenced.  I  took  the  sorry 
remnant  and  began  washing  the  dishes,  mentally 
resolving,  and  carrying  out  my  resolution  the  next 

40 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

day,  to  send  him  a  respectable  dish-cloth.  Prosaic, 
if  you  will,  but  does  not  his  own  Emerson  say  some 
thing  about  giving  — 

"to  barrows,  trays,  and  pans,  • 
Grace  and  glimmer  of  romance"? 

And  what  graces  a  dish-pan  better  than  a  clean, 
whole,  self-respecting  dish-cloth? 

So  there  we  stood,  John  Burroughs  and  his  hum 
ble  reader,  washing  and  wiping  dishes,  and  weigh 
ing  Amiel  and  Schopenhauer  in  the  balance  at  the 
same  time;  and  a  very  novel  and  amusing  expe 
rience  it  was.  Yet  it  did  not  seem  so  strange 
after  all,  but  almost  as  though  it  had  happened 
before.  Silly  Sally  purred  beseechingly  as  she  fol 
lowed  her  master  about  the  room  and  out  to  the 
wood-pile,  reminding  him  that  she  liked  chicken 
bones. 

While  putting  the  bread  in  the  large  tin  box  that 
stood  on  the  stair-landing,  I  had  some  difficulty 
with  the  clasp.  "Never  mind  that,"  said  Mr. 
Burroughs,  as  he  scraped  the  potato  skins  into  the 
fire;  "a  Vassar  girl  sat  down  on  that  box  last  sum 
mer,  and  it's  never  been  the  same  since." 

The  work  finished,  there  was  more  talk  before  the 
fire.  It  was  here  that  the  author  told  his  guest 
about  Anne  Gilchrist,  the  talented,  noble-hearted 
Englishwoman,  whose  ready  acceptance  of  Whit 
man's  message  bore  fruit  in  her  penetrating  crit- 

41 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

icism  of  Whitman,  a  criticism  which  stands  to-day 
unrivaled  by  anything  that  has  been  written  con 
cerning  the  Good  Gray  Poet. 

Like  most  of  Mr.  Burroughs's  readers,  I  cherish 
his  poem  "Waiting,"  and,  like  most  of  them,  I 
told  him  so  on  seeing  him  seated  before  the  fire 
with  folded  hands  and  face  serene,  a  living  embodi 
ment  of  the  faith  and  trust  expressed  in  those  famil 
iar  lines.  It  would  seem  natural  that  he  should 
write  such  a  poem  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  after 
his  ripe  experience,  after  success  had  come  to  him; 
it  is  the  lesson  we  expect  one  to  learn  on  reaching 
his  age,  and  learning  how  futile  is  the  fret  and  urge 
of  life,  how  infinitely  better  is  the  attitude  of  trust 
that  what  is  our  own  will  gravitate  to  us  in  obedi 
ence  to  eternal  laws.  But  I  there  learned  that  he 
had  written  the  poem  when  a  young  man,  life  all 
before  him,  his  prospects  in  a  dubious  and  chaotic 
condition,  his  aspirations  seeming  likely  to  come 
to  naught. 

"I  have  lived  to  prove  it  true,"  he  said,  —  "that 
which  I  but  vaguely  divined  when  I  wrote  the 
lines.  Our  lives  are  all  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
shot  through  with  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the 
universe,  past,  present,  and  to  cornel  No  doubt 
at  all  that  our  own  —  that  which  our  souls  crave 
and  need  —  does  gravitate  toward  us,  or  we  toward 
it.  'Waiting'  has  been  successful,"  he  added, 

42 


THE  RETREAT  OF  A  POET-NATURALIST 

"  not  on  account  of  its  poetic  merit,  but  for  some 
other  merit  or  quality.  It  puts  in  simple  and  happy 
form  some  common  religious  aspirations,  without 
using  the  religious  jargon.  People  write  me  from 
all  parts  of  the  country  that  they  treasure  it  in  their 
hearts;  that  it  steadies  their  hand  at  the  helm;  that 
it  is  full  of  consolation  for  them.  It  is  because  it 
is  poetry  allied  with  religion  that  it  has  this  effect; 
poetry  alone  would  not  do  this;  neither  would  a 
prose  expression  of  the  same  religious  aspirations 
do  it,  for  we  often  outgrow  the  religious  views  and 
feelings  of  the  past.  The  religious  thrill,  the  sense 
of  the  Infinite,  the  awe  and  majesty  of  the  universe, 
are  no  doubt  permanent  in  the  race,  but  the  expres 
sion  of  these  feelings  in  creeds  and  forms  addressed 
to  the  understanding,  or  exposed  to  the  analysis 
of  the  understanding,  is  as  transient  and  flitting 
as  the  leaves  of  the  trees.  My  little  poem  is  vague 
enough  to  escape  the  reason,  sincere  enough  to  go 
to  the  heart,  and  poetic  enough  to  stir  the  imagina 
tion." 

The  power  of  accurate  observation,  of  dispas 
sionate  analysis,  of  keen  discrimination  and  insight 
that  we  his  readers  are  familiar  with  in  his  writings 
about  nature,  books,  men,  and  life  in  general,  is 
here  seen  to  extend  to  self -analysis  as  well,  —  a 
rare  gift;  a  power  that  makes  his  opinions  carry 
conviction.  We  feel  he  is  not  intent  on  upholding 

43 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

any  theory,  but  only  on  seeing  things  as  they  are, 
and  reporting  them  as  they  are. 

A  steady  rain  had  set  in  early  in  the  afternoon, 
effectually  drowning  my  hopes  of  a  longer  wood 
land  walk  that  day,  but  I  was  then,  and  many  a 
time  since  then  have  been,  well  content  that  it  was 
so.  I  learned  less  of  woodland  lore,  but  more  of  the 
woodland  philosopher. 

In  quiet  converse  passed  the  hours  of  that  memor 
able  day  in  the  humble  retreat  on  the  wooded 
hills,  — 

"  Far  from  the  clank  of  the  world,"  — 

and  in  the  company  of  the  poet-naturalist.  So 
cordial  had  my  host  been,  so  gracious  the  admission 
to  his  home  and  hospitality,  that  I  left  the  little 
refuge  with  a  feeling  of  enrichment  I  shall  cherish 
while  life  lasts.  I  had  sought  out  a  favorite 
author;  I  had  gained  a  friend. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

[In  response  to  my  request,  Mr.  Burroughs  began  in 
1903  to  write  for  me  a  series  of  letters,  autobiographical 
in  character.  It  is  from  them,  for  the  most  part,  helped 
out  by  interviews  to  fill  in  the  gaps,  that  I  have  compiled 
this  part  of  the  book.  The  letters  were  not  written 
continuously;  begun  in  1903,  they  suffered  a  long  inter 
ruption,  were  resumed  in  1906,  again  in  1907,  and  lastly 
in  1912.  The  reader  will,  I  trust,  pardon  any  repetition 
noted,  an  occasional  return  to  a  subject  previously 
touched  upon  being  unavoidable  because  of  the  long 
intervals  between  some  of  the  letters. 

It  seems  to  me  that  these  letters  picture  our  author 
more  faithfully  than  could  any  portrait  drawn  by  an 
other.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  has  said  that  no  man  has 
ever  yet  succeeded  in  painting  an  honest  portrait  of  him 
self  in  an  autobiography,  however  sedulously  he  may 
have  set  about  it;  that  in  spite  of  his  candid  purpose  he 
omits  necessary  touches  and  adds  superfluous  ones;  that 
at  times  he  cannot  help  draping  his  thought,  and  that, 
of  course,  the  least  shred  of  drapery  is  a  disguise.  But, 
Aldrich  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  I  believe  Mr. 
Burroughs  has  pictured  himself  and  his  environment  in 
these  pages  with  the  same  fidelity  with  which  he  has 
interpreted  nature.  He  is  so  used  to  "  straight  seeing  and 
straight  thinking  "  that  these  gifts  do  not  desert  him 
when  his  observation  is  turned  upon  himself.  He  seems 
to  be  a  shining  example  of  the  exception  that  proves 
the  rule.  Besides,  when  Aldrich  pronounced  that  dic 
tum,  Mr.  Burroughs  had  not  produced  these  sketches,  j 

45 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

This  record  was  not  written  with  the  intention  of  its 
being  published  as  it  stood,  but  merely  to  acquaint  me 
with  the  facts  and  with  the  author's  feelings  concerning 
them,  in  case  I  should  some  day  undertake  his  biography. 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  just  because  it  was  so  written, 
it  has  a  value  which  would  be  considerably  lessened  were 
it  to  be  worked  over  into  a  more  finished  form.  I  have 
been  willing  to  sacrifice  the  more  purely  literary  value 
which  would  undoubtedly  grace  the  record,  were  the 
author  to  revise  it,  that  I  may  retain  its  homely,  un 
studied  human  value. 

I  have  arranged  the  autobiographical  material  under 
three  headings:  Ancestry  and  Family  Life,  Childhood 
and  Youth,  and  Self-Analysis.  —  C.  B.] 

ANCESTRY  AND  FAMILY  LIFE 

I  AM,  as  you  know,  the  son  of  a  farmer.  My 
father  was  the  son  of  a  farmer,  as  was  his 
father,  and  his.  There  is  no  break,  so  far  as  I  know, 
in  the  line  of  farmers  back  into  the  seventeenth 
century.  There  was  a  Rev.  George  Burroughs  who 
was  hanged  (in  1692)  for  a  witch  in  Salem.  He  was 
a  Harvard  graduate.  I  know  of  no  other  Harvard 
graduate  by  our  name  until  Julian  [Mr.  Burroughs's 
son]  graduated  in  1901  from  Harvard.  My  father's 
cousin,  the  Rev.  John  C.  Burroughs,  the  first 
president  of  Chicago  University,  was  graduated 
from  Yale  sometime  in  the  early  forties. 

The  first  John  Burroughs  of  whom  I  have  any 
trace  came  from  the  West  Indies,  and  settled  in 

46 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

Stratford,  Connecticut,  where  he  married  in  1694. 
He  had  ten  children,  of  whom  the  seventh  was 
John,  born  in  August,  1705.  My  descent  does  not 
come  from  this  John,  but  from  his  eldest  brother, 
Stephen,  who  was  born  at  Stratford  in  February, 
1695.  Stephen  had  eight  children,  and  here  another 
John  turns  up  —  his  last  child,  born  in  1745.  His 
third  child,  Stephen  Burroughs  (born  in  1729), 
was  a  shipbuilder  and  became  a  noted  mathema 
tician  and  astronomer,  and  lived  at  Bridgeport, 
Connecticut.  My  descent  is  through  Stephen's 
seventh  child,  Ephraim,  born  in  1740. 

Ephraim,  my  great-grandfather,  also  had  a  large 
family,  six  sons  and  several  daughters,  of  which  my 
grandfather  Eden  was  one.  He  was  born  in  Strat 
ford,  about  1770.  My  great-grandfather  Ephraim 
left  Stratford  near  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution 
and  came  into  New  York  State,  first  into  Dutchess 
County,  when  Grandfather  was  a  small  boy,  and 
finally  settled  in  what  is  now  the  town  of  Stamford, 
Delaware  County,  where  he  died  in  1818.  He  is 
buried  in  a  field  between  Hobart  and  Stamford. 

My  grandfather  Eden  married  Rachael  Avery, 
and  shortly  afterward  moved  over  the  mountain  to 
the  town  of  Roxbury,  cutting  a  road  through  the 
woods  and  bringing  his  wife  and  all  their  goods  and 
chattels  on  a  sled  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  oxen.  This 
must  have  been  not  far  from  the  year  1795.  He 

47 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

cleared  the  land  and  built  a  log  house  with  a  black- 
ash  bark  roof,  and  a  great  stone  chimney,  and  a 
floor  of  hewn  logs.  Grandmother  said  it  was  the 
happiest  day  of  her  life  when  she  found  herself  the 
mistress  of  this  little  house  in  the  woods.  Great- 
grandmother  Avery  lived  with  them  later.  She 
had  a  petulant  disposition.  One  day  when  re 
proved  for  something,  she  went  off  and  hid  herself 
in  the  bushes  and  sulked  —  a  family  trait;  I  'm  a 
little  that  way,  I  guess. 

Grandfather  Burroughs  was  religious,  —  an  Old- 
School  Baptist,  —  a  thoughtful,  quiet,  exemplary 
man  who  read  his  Bible  much.  He  was  of  spare 
build,  serious,  thrifty  after  the  manner  of  pioneers, 
and  a  kind  husband  and  father.  He  died,  probably 
of  apoplexy,  when  I  was  four  years  old.  I  can  dimly 
remember  him.  He  was  about  seventy-two. 

Grandmother  Burroughs  had  sandy  hair  and  a 
freckled  face,  and  from  her  my  father  and  his 
sister  Abby  got  their  red  hair.  From  this  source  I 
doubtless  get  some  of  my  Celtic  blood.  Grand 
mother  Burroughs  had  nine  children;  the  earliest 
ones  died  in  infancy;  their  graves  are  on  the  hill 
in  the  old  bury  ing-ground.  Two  boys  and  five 
girls  survived  —  Phcebe,  Betsy,  Mary,  Abby,  Oily, 
Chauncey  (my  father),  and  Hiram. 

I  do  not  remember  Grandmother  at  all.  She 
died,  I  think,  in  1838,  of  consumption;  she  was  in 

48 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

the  seventies.  Father  said  her  last  words  were, 
"Chauncey,  I  have  but  a  little  while  to  live." 
Her  daughter  Oily  and  also  my  sister  Oily  died 
of  consumption.  Grandmother  used  to  work  with 
Grandfather  in  the  fields,  and  help  make  sugar. 
I  have  heard  them  tell  how  in  1812  they  raised 
wheat  which  sold  for  $2.50  a  Jbushel  —  a  great 
thing. 

Father  told  me  of  his  uncle,  Chauncey  Avery, 
brother  of  Grandmother  Burroughs,  who,  with 
his  wife  and  seven  children,  was  drowned  near 
Shandaken,  by  a  flood  in  the  Esopus  Creek,  in 
April,  1814,  or  1816.  The  creek  rose  rapidly  in  the 
night;  retreat  was  cut  off  in  the  morning.  They 
got  on  the  roof  and  held  family  prayers.  Uncle 
Chauncey  tried  to  fell  a  tree  and  make  a  bridge, 
but  the  water  drove  him  away.  The  house  was 
finally  carried  away  with  most  of  the  family  in  it. 
The  father  swam  to  a  stump  with  one  boy  on  his 
back  and  stood  there  till  the  water  carried  away 
the  stump,  then  tried  to  swim  with  the  boy  for 
shore,  but  the  driftwood  soon  engulfed  him  and 
all  was  over.  Two  of  the  bodies  were  never  found. 
Their  bones  doubtless  rest  somewhere  in  the  still 
waters  of  the  lower  Esopus. 

[Here  follow  details  concerning  one  paternal  and  one 
maternal  aunt,  which,  though  picturesque,  would  better 

49 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

be  omitted.  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  in  this 
simple  homely  narrative  of  his  ancestors  (which,  by  the 
way,  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  the  early  pioneer  days)  and 
later  in  his  own  personal  history,  there  is  no  attempt 
to  conceal  or  gloss  over  weaknesses  or  shortcomings;  all 
is  set  down  with  engaging  candor.  —  C.  B.] 

Father's  sister  Abby  married  a  maternal  cousin, 
John  Kelly.  He  was  of  a  scholarly  turn.  He  worked 
for  Father  the  year  I  was  born,  and  I  was  named 
after  him.  I  visited  him  in  Pennsylvania  in  1873, 
and  while  there,  when  he  was  talking  with  me  about 
the  men  of  our  family  named  John  Burroughs,  he 
said,  "One  was  a  minister  in  the  West,  one  was 
Uncle  Hiram's  son,  you  are  the  third,  and  there  is 
still  another  I  have  heard  of,  —  a  writer."  And  I 
was  silly  enough  not  to  tell  him  that  I  was  that 
one.  After  I  reached  home,  some  of  my  people  sent 
him  "Winter  Sunshine,"  and  when  he  found  that 
I  was  its  author,  he  wrote  that  he  "set  great  store 
by  it."  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  been 
so  reticent  about  my  books  —  they  were  a  foreign 
thing,  I  suppose;  it  was  not  natural  to  speak  of 
them  among  my  kinsfolk. 

[In  this  connection  let  me  quote  from  an  early  letter 
of  Mr.  Burroughs  to  me.  It  was  written  in  1901  after 
the  death  of  his  favorite  sister: "  She  was  very  dear  to  me, 
and  I  had  no  better  friend.  More  than  the  rest  of  my 
people  she  aspired  to  understand  and  appreciate  me, 
and  with  a  measure  of  success.  My  family  are  plain, 

50 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

unlettered  farmer  folk,  and  the  world  in  which  you  and 
I  live  is  a  sealed  book  to  them.  They  have  never  read 
my  books.  What  they  value  in  me  is  what  I  have  in 
common  with  them,  which  is,  no  doubt,  the  larger  part 
of  me.  But  I  love  them  all  just  the  same.  They  are  a 
part  of  father  and  mother,  of  the  old  home,  and  of  my 
youthful  days."  —  C.  B.] 

Mother's  father,  Grandfather  Kelly,  was  a  sol 
dier  of  1776,  of  Irish  descent,  born  in  Connecticut, 
I  think.  His  name  was  Edmund  Kelly.  He  went 
into  the  war  as  a  boy  and  saw  Washington  and  La 
Fayette.  He  was  at  Valley  Forge  during  that  ter 
rible  winter  the  army  spent  there.  One  day  Wash 
ington  gave  the  order  to  the  soldiers  to  dress-parade 
for  inspection;  some  had  good  clothes,  some 
scarcely  any,  and  no  shoes.  He  made  all  the  well- 
dressed  men  go  and  cut  wood  for  the  rest,  and  ex 
cused  the  others. 

Grandfather  was  a  small  man  with  a  big  head  and 
quite  pronounced  Irish  features.  He  was  a  dreamer. 
He  was  not  a  good  provider;  Grandmother  did  most 
of  the  providing.  He  wore  a  military  coat  with 
brass  buttons,  and  red-top  boots.  He  believed  in 
spooks  and  witches,  and  used  to  tell  us  spook  stories 
till  our  hair  would  stand  on  end. 

He  was  an  expert  trout  fisherman.  Early  in  the 
morning  I  would  dig  worms  for  bait,  and  we  would 
go  fishing  over  in  West  Settlement,  or  in  Montgom- 

51 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

ery  Hollow.  I  went  fishing  with  him  when  he  was 
past  eighty.  He  would  steal  along  the  streams  and 
"snake"  out  the  trout,  walking  as  briskly  as  I  do 
now.  From  him  I  get  my  dreamy,  lazy,  shirking 
ways. 

In  1848  he  and  Grandmother  came  to  live  near 
us.  He  had  a  severe  fit  of  illness  that  year.  I  re 
member  we  caught  a  fat  coon  for  him.  He  was  fond 
of  game.  I  was  there  one  morning  when  they  enter 
tained  a  colored  minister  overnight,  probably  a 
fugitive  slave.  He  prayed  —  how  lustily  he  prayed! 

I  have  heard  Grandfather  tell  how,  when  he  was 
a  boy  in  Connecticut,  he  once  put  his  hand  in  a 
bluebird's  nest  and  felt,  as  he  said,  "something 
comical " ;  he  drew  out  his  hand,  which  was  followed 
by  the  head  and  neck  of  a  black  snake;  he  took  to 
his  heels,  and  the  black  snake  after  him.  (I  rather 
think  that's  a  myth.)  He  said  his  uncle,  who  was 
ploughing,  came  after  the  black  snake  with  a 
whip,  and  the  snake  slunk  away.  He  thought  he 
remembered  that.  It  may  be  a  black  snake  might 
pursue  one,  but  I  doubt  it. 

[Mr.  Burroughs's  ingrained  tendency  to  question  re 
ports  of  improbable  things  in  nature  shows  even  in  these 
reminiscences  of  his  grandfather.  His  instinct  for  the 
truth  is  always  on  the  qui  vive.  —  C,  B.] 

Grandmother  Kelly  lived  to  be  past  eighty.  She 
was  a  big  woman  —  thrifty  and  domestic  —  big 

52 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

enough  to  take  "Granther"  up  in  her  arms  and 
walk  off  with  him.  She  did  more  to  bring  up  her 
family  than  he  did;  was  a  practical  housewife,  and 
prolific.  She  had  ten  children  and  made  every  one 
of  them  toe  the  mark.  I  don't  know  whether  she 
ever  took  "Granther"  across  her  knee  or  not,  but 
he  probably  deserved  it.  She  was  quite  uneducated. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Lavinia  Minot.1  I  don't 
know  where  her  people  came  from,  or  whether  she 
had  any  brothers  and  sisters.  They  lived  in  Red 
Kill  mostly,  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  town  of  Rox- 
bury,  and  also  over  on  the  edge  of  Greene  County. 
I  remember,  when  Grandfather  used  to  tell  stories 
of  cruelty  in  the  army,  and  of  the  hardships  of  the 
soldiers,  she  would  wriggle  and  get  very  angry. 
All  her  children  were  large.  They  were  as  follows: 
Sukie,  Ezekiel,  Charles,  Martin,  Edmund,  William, 
Thomas,  Hannah,  Abby,  and  Amy  (my  mother). 
Aunt  Sukie  was  a  short,  chubby  woman,  always 
laughing.  Uncle  Charles  was  a  man  of  strong  Irish 
features,  like  Grandfather.  He  was  a  farmer  who 
lived  in  Genesee  County.  Uncle  Martin  was  a 
farmer  of  fair  intelligence;  Ezekiel  was  lower  in  the 
scale  than  the  others;  was  intemperate,  and  after 
losing  his  farm  became  a  day-laborer.  He  would 
carry  a  gin-bottle  into  the  fields,  and  would  mow 

1  Later  information,  which  J.  B.  admits  is  probably  correct,  gives 
her  name  as  Lovina  Liscom. 

53 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  stones  as  readily  as  he  would  the  grass  —  and  I 
had  to  turn  the  grindstone  to  sharpen  his  scythe. 
Uncle  Edmund  was  a  farmer  and  a  pettifogger. 
Uncle  William  died  comparatively  young;  he  had 
nurseries  near  Rochester.  Uncle  Thomas  was  a 
farmer,  slow  and  canny,  with  a  quiet,  dry  humor. 
Aunt  Hannah  married  Robert  Avery,  who  drank  a 
good  deal;  I  can't  remember  anything  about  her. 
Aunt  Abby  was  large  and  thrifty;  she  married  John 
Jenkins,  and  had  a  large  family.  .  .  .  Amy,  my 
mother,  was  her  mother's  tenth  child. 

Mother  was  born  in  Rensselaer  County  near 
Albany,  in  1808.  Her  father  moved  to  Delaware 
County  when  she  was  a  child,  driving  there  with 
an  ox-team.  Mother  "worked  out"  in  her  early 
teens.  She  was  seventeen  or  eighteen  when  she 
married,  February,  1827. 

Father  and  Mother  first  went  to  keeping  house 
on  Grandfather  Burroughs's  old  place  —  not  in  the 
log  house,  but  in  the  frame  house  of  which  you  saw 
the  foundations.  Brother  Hiram  was  born  there. 

[Mr.  Burroughs's  last  walk  with  his  father  was  to  the 
crumbling  foundations  of  this  house.  I  have  heard  him 
tell  how  his  father  stood  and  pointed  out  the  location 
of  the  various  rooms  —  the  room  where  they  slept  the 
first  night  they  went  there;  the  one  where  the  eldest 
child  was  born;  that  in  which  his  mother  died.  I  stood 
(one  August  day  in  1902)  with  Mr.  Burroughs  on  the 

54 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

still  remaining  joists  of  his  grandfather's  house — • 
grass-grown,  and  with  the  debris  of  stones  and  beams 
mingling  with  weeds  and  bushes.  He  pointed  out  to 
me,  as  his  father  had  done  for  him,  the  location  of  the 
rarious  rooms,  and  mused  upon  the  scenes  enacted 
there;  he  showed  where  the  paths  led  to  the  barn  and 
to  the  spring,  and  seemed  to  take  a  melancholy  interest 
in  picturing  the  lives  of  his  parents  and  grandparents. 
A  sudden  burst  of  gladness  from  a  song  sparrow,  and 
his  musings  gave  way  to  attentive  pleasure,  and  the 
sunlit  Present  claimed  him  instead  of  the  shadowy  Past. 
He  was  soon  rejoicing  in  the  discovery  of  a  junco's  nest 
near  the  foundations  of  the  old  house.  —  C.  B.] 

My  father,  Chauncey  Burroughs,  was  born 
December  20,  1803.  He  received  a  fair  schooling 
for  those  times  —  the  three  R's  —  and  taught 
school  one  or  two  winters.  His  reading  was  the 
Bible  and  hymn-book,  his  weekly  secular  paper, 
and  a  monthly  religious  paper. 

He  used  to  say  that  as  a  boy  he  was  a  very  mean 
one,  saucy,  quarrelsome,  and  wicked,  liked  horse- 
racing  and  card-playing  —  both  alike  disreputable 
in  those  times.  In  early  manhood  he  "experienced 
religion  "and  joined  the  Old-School  Baptist  Church, 
of  which  his  parents  were  members,  and  then  all  his 
bad  habits  seem  to  have  been  discarded.  He  stopped 
swearing  and  Sabbath-breaking,  and  other  forms  of 
wickedness,  and  became  an  exemplary  member  of 
the  community.  He  was  a  man  of  unimpeachable 

55 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

veracity;  bigoted  and  intolerant  in  his  religious 
and  political  views,  but  a  good  neighbor,  a  kind 
father,  a  worthy  citizen,  a  fond  husband,  and  a 
consistent  member  of  his  church.  He  improved  his 
farm,  paid  his  debts,  and  kept  his  faith.  He  had  no 
sentiment  about  things  and  was  quite  unconscious 
of  the  beauties  of  nature  over  which  we  make  such 
an  ado.  "The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim "  would 
not  have  been  seen  by  him  at  all.  This  is  true 
of  most  farmers;  the  plough  and  the  hoe  and  the 
scythe  do  not  develop  their  aesthetic  sensibilities; 
then,  too,  in  the  old  religious  view  the  beauties 
of  this  world  were  vain  and  foolish. 

I  have  said  that  my  father  had  strong  religious 
feeling.  He  took  "  The  Signs  of  the  Times  "  for  over 
forty  years,  reading  all  those  experiences  with  the 
deepest  emotion.  I  remember  when  a  mere  lad 
hearing  him  pray  in  the  hog-pen.  It  was  a  time 
of  unusual  religious  excitement  with  him,  no  doubt; 
I  heard,  and  ran  away,  knowing  it  was  not  for  me 
to  hear. 

Father  had  red  hair,  and  a  ruddy,  freckled  face. 
He  was  tender-hearted  and  tearful,  but  with  blus 
tering  ways  and  a  harsh,  strident  voice.  Easily 
moved  to  emotion,  he  was  as  transparent  as  a  child, 
with  a  child's  lack  of  self -consciousness.  Unso 
phisticated,  he  had  no  art  to  conceal  anything,  no 
guile, and,  as  Mother  used  to  say,  no  manners.  "All 

56 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

I  ever  had,"  Father  would  rejoin,  "for  I  Ve  never 
used  any  of  them."  I  doubt  if  he  ever  said  "Thank 
you"  in  his  life;  I  certainly  never  heard  him.  He 
had  nothing  to  conceal,  and  could  not  understand 
that  others  might  have.  I  have  heard  him  ask 
people  what  certain  things  cost,  men  their  politics, 
women  their  ages,  with  the  utmost  ingenuousness. 
One  day  when  he  and  I  were  in  Poughkeepsie,  we 
met  a  strange  lad  on  the  street  with  very  red  hair, 
and  Father  said  to  him,  "I  can  remember  when  my 
hair  was  as  red  as  yours."  The  boy  stared  at  him 
and  passed  on. 

Although  Father  lacked  delicacy,  he  did  not  lack 
candor  or  directness.  He  would  tell  a  joke  on  him 
self  with  the  same  glee  that  he  would  on  any  one 
else.  ...  I  have  heard  him  tell  how,  in  1844,  at  the 
time  of  the  "  anti-renters,"  when  he  saw  the  posse 
coming,  he  ran  over  the  hill  to  Uncle  Daniel's  and 
crawled  under  the  bed,  but  left  his  feet  sticking  out, 
and  there  they  found  him.  He  had  not  offended,  or 
dressed  as  an  Indian,  but  had  sympathized  with 
the  offenders. 

He  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  about  the  farm, 
sending  his  voice  over  the  hills  (we  could  hear  him 
calling  us  to  dinner  when  we  were  working  on  the 
"Rundle  Place,"  half  a  mile  away),  shouting  at  the 
cows,  the  pigs,  the  sheep,  or  calling  the  dog,  with 
needless  expenditure  of  vocal  power  at  all  times 

57 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

and  seasons.  The  neighbors  knew  when  Father  was 
at  home;  so  did  the  cattle  in  the  remotest  field. 
His  bark  was  always  to  be  dreaded  more  than  his 
bite.  His  threats  of  punishment  were  loud  and 
severe,  but  the  punishment  rarely  came.  Never  but 
once  did  he  take  a  gad  to  me,  and  then  the  sound 
was  more  than  the  substance.  I  deserved  more  than 
I  got:  I  had  let  a  cow  run  through  the  tall  grass  in 
the  meadow  when  I  might  easily  have  "headed  her 
off,"  as  I  was  told  to  do.  Father  used  to  say  "No," 
to  our  requests  for  favors  (such  as  a  day  off  to  go 
fishing  or  hunting)  with  strong  emphasis,  and  then 
yield  to  our  persistent  coaxing. 

One  day  I  was  going  to  town  and  asked  him  for 
money  to  buy  an  algebra.  "What  is  an  algebra?" 
He  had  never  heard  of  an  algebra,  and  could  n't  see 
why  I  needed  one;  he  refused  the  money,  though  I 
coaxed  and  Mother  pleaded  with  him.  I  had  left 
the  house  and  had  got  as  far  as  the  big  hill  up  there 
by  the  pennyroyal  rock,  when  he  halloed  to  me 
that  I  might  get  the  algebra  —  Mother  had  evi 
dently  been  instrumental  in  bringing  him  to  terms. 
But  my  blood  was  up  by  this  time,  and  as  I  trudged 
along  to  the  village  I  determined  to  wait  until  I 
could  earn  the  money  myself  for  the  algebra,  and 
some  other  books  I  coveted.  I  boiled  sap  and  made 
maple-sugar,  and  the  books  were  all  the  sweeter 
by  reason  of  the  maple-sugar  money. 

58 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

When  I  wanted  help,  as  I  did  two  or  three  times 
later,  on  a  pinch,  Father  refused  me;  and,  as  it 
turned  out,  I  was  the  only  one  of  his  children  that 
could  or  would  help  him  when  the  pinch  came  —  a 
curious  retribution,  but  one  that  gave  me  pleasure 
and  him  no  pain.  I  was  better  unhelped,  as  it 
proved,  and  better  for  all  I  could  help  him.  But 
he  was  a  loving  father  all  the  same.  He  could  n't 
understand  my  needs,  but  love  outweighs  under 
standing. 

He  did  not  like  my  tendency  to  books;  he  was 
afraid,  as  I  learned  later,  that  I  would  become  a 
Methodist  minister  —  his  pet  aversion.  He  never 
had  much  faith  in  me  —  less  than  in  any  of  his 
children;  he  doubted  if  I  would  ever  amount  to 
anything.  He  saw  that  I  was  an  odd  one,  and  had 
tendencies  and  tastes  that  he  did  not  sympathize 
with.  He  never  alluded  to  my  literary  work;  appar 
ently  left  it  out  of  his  estimate  of  me.  My  aims 
and  aspirations  were  a  sealed  book  to  him,  as  his 
peculiar  religious  experiences  were  to  me,  yet  I 
reckon  it  was  the  same  leaven  working  in  us  both. 

I  remember,  on  my  return  from  Dr.  Holmes's 
seventieth  birthday  breakfast,  in  1879,  a  remark  of 
father's.  He  had  overheard  me  telling  sister  Abi 
gail  about  the  breakfast,  and  he  declared:  "I  had 
rather  go  to  hear  old  Elder  Jim  Mead  preach  two 
hours,  if  he  was  living,  than  attend  all  the  fancy 

59 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

parties  in  the  world."  He  said  he  had  heard  him 
preach  when  he  did  not  know  whether  he  was  in  the 
body  or  out  of  the  body.  The  elder  undoubtedly 
had  a  strong  natural  eloquence. 

Although  Father  never  spoke  to  me  of  my  writ 
ings,  Abigail  once  told  me  that  when  she  showed 
him  a  magazine  with  some  article  of  mine  in,  and 
accompanied  by  a  photograph  of  me,  he  looked  at 
it  a  long  time;  he  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

He  went  to  school  to  the  father  of  Jay  Gould, 
John  Gould  —  the  first  child  born  in  the  town  of 
Roxbury  (about  1780  or  1790). 

He  married  Amy  Kelly,  my  mother,  in  1827.  He 
was  six  years  her  senior.  She  lived  over  in  Red  Kill 
where  he  had  taught  school,  and  was  one  of  his 
pupils.  I  have  often  heard  him  say:  "I  rode  your 
Uncle  Martin's  old  sorrel  mare  over  to  her  folks' 
when  I  went  courting  her."  When  he  would  be 
affectionate  toward  her  before  others,  Mother 
would  say,  "Now,  Chauncey,  don't  be  foolish." 

Father  bought  the  farm  of  'Riah  Bartram's 
mother,  and  moved  on  it  in  1827.  In  a  house  that 
stood  where  the  Old  Home  does  now,  I  was  born, 
April  3,  1837.  It  was  a  frame  house  with  three  or 
four  rooms  below  and  one  room  "done  off"  above, 
and  a  big  chamber.  I  was  the  fifth  son  and  the 
seventh  child  of  my  parents. 

60 


'. 


I      «." 


t  ... 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

Mother  was  in  her  twenty-ninth  year  when  she 
was  carrying  me.  She  had  already  borne  four  boys 
and  two  girls;  her  health  was  good  and  her  life, 
like  that  of  all  farmers'  wives  in  that  section,  was  a 
laborious  one.  I  can  see  her  going  about  her  work 
— milking,  butter-making,  washing,  cooking,  berry- 
picking,  sugar-making,  sewing,  knitting,  mending, 
and  the  thousand  duties  that  fell  to  her  lot  and 
filled  her  days.  Both  she  and  Father  were  up  at 
daylight  in  summer,  and  before  daylight  in  winter. 
Sometimes  she  had  help  in  the  kitchen,  but  oftener 
she  did  not.  The  work  that  housewives  did  in  those 
times  seems  incredible.  They  made  their  own  soap, 
sugar,  cheese,  dipped  or  moulded  their  candles, 
spun  the  flax  and  wool  and  wove  it  into  cloth,  made 
carpets, knit  the  socks  and  mittens  and  "comforts" 
for  the  family,  dried  apples,  pumpkins,  and  berries, 
and  made  the  preserves  and  pickles  for  home  use. 

Mother  went  about  all  these  duties  with  cheer 
fulness  and  alacrity.  She  more  than  kept  up  her 
end  of  the  farm  work.  She  was  more  strenuous 
than  father.  How  many  hours  she  sat  up  mending 
and  patching  our  clothes,  while  we  were  sleeping! 
Rainy  days  meant  no  let-up  in  her  work,  as  they 
did  in  Father's. 

The  first  suit  of  clothes  I  remember  having,  she 
cut  and  made.  Then  the  quilts  and  coverlids  she 
pieced  and  quilted!  We  used,  too,  in  my  boyhood 

61 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

to  make  over  two  tons  of  butter  annually,  the  care 
of  which  devolved  mainly  upon  her,  from  the  skim 
ming  of  the  pans  to  the  packing  of  the  butter  in  the 
tubs  and  firkins,  though  the  churning  was  com 
monly  done  by  a  sheep  or  a  dog.  We  made  our 
own  cheese,  also.  As  a  boy  I  used  to  help  do  the 
whey  ing,  and  I  took  toll  out  of  the  sweet  curd.  One 
morning  I  ate  so  much  of  the  curd  that  I  was  com 
pletely  cloyed,  and  could  eat  none  after  that. 

I  can  remember  Mother's  loom  pounding  away 
hour  after  hour  in  the  chamber  of  an  outbuilding 
where  she  was  weaving  a  carpet,  or  cloth.  I  used  to 
help  do  some  of  the  quilling  —  running  the  yarn  or 
linen  thread  upon  spools  to  be  used  in  the  shuttles. 
The  distaff,  the  quill-wheel,  the  spinning-wheel,  the 
reel,  were  very  familiar  to  me  as  a  boy;  so  was  the 
crackle,  the  swingle,  the  hetchel,  for  Father  grew 
flax  which  Mother  spun  into  thread  and  wove  into 
cloth  for  our  shirts  and  summer  trousers,  and  for 
towels  and  sheets.  Wearing  those  shirts,  when  new, 
made  a  boy's  skin  pretty  red.  I  dare  say  they  were 
quite  equal  to  a  hair  shirt  to  do  penance  in;  and 
wiping  on  a  new  home-made  linen  towel  suggested 
wiping  on  a  brier  bush.  Dear  me!  how  long  it  has 
been  since  I  have  seen  any  tow,  or  heard  a  loom 
or  a  spinning-wheel,  or  seen  a  boy  breaking  in  his 
new  flax-made  shirt!  No  one  sees  these  things 
any  more. 

62 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

Mother  had  but  little  schooling;  she  learned  to 
read,  but  not  to  write  or  cipher;  hence,  books  and 
such  interests  took  none  of  her  time.  She  was  one 
of  those  uneducated  countrywomen  of  strong  nat 
ural  traits  and  wholesome  instincts,  devoted  to  her 
children;  she  bore  ten,  and  nursed  them  all  —  an 
heroic  worker,  a  helpful  neighbor,  and  a  provi 
dent  housewife,  with  the  virtues  that  belonged  to 
so  many  farmers'  wives  in  those  days,  and  which  we 
are  all  glad  to  be  able  to  enumerate  in  our  mothers. 

She  had  not  a  large  frame,  but  was  stout;  had 
brown  hair  and  blue  eyes,  a  fine  strong  brow,  and  a 
straight  nose  with  a  strong  bridge  to  it.  She  was  a 
woman  of  great  emotional  capacity,  who  felt  more 
than  she  thought.  She  scolded  a  good  deal,  but  was 
not  especially  quick-tempered.  She  was  an  Old- 
School  Baptist,  as  was  Father. 

She  was  not  of  a  vivacious  or  sunny  disposition 
—  always  a  little  in  shadow,  as  it  seems  to  me  now, 
given  to  brooding  and  to  dwelling  upon  the  more 
serious  aspects  of  life.  How  little  she  knew  of  all 
that  has  been  done  and  thought  in  the  world !  and 
yet  the  burden  of  it  all  was,  in  a  way,  laid  upon  her. 
The  seriousness  of  Revolutionary  times,  out  o' 
which  came  her  father  and  mother,  was  no  doubt 
reflected  in  her  own  serious  disposition.  As  I  have 
said,  her  happiness  was  always  shaded,  never  in  a 
strong  light;  and  the  sadness  which  motherhood, 

63 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

and  the  care  of  a  large  family,  and  a  yearning  heart 
beget  was  upon  her.  I  see  myself  in  her  perpet 
ually.  A  longing  which  nothing  can  satisfy  I  share 
with  her.  Whatever  is  most  valuable  in  my  books 
comes  from  her  —  the  background  of  feeling,  of 
pity,  of  love  comes  from  her. 

She  was  of  a  very  different  temperament  from 
Father  —  much  more  self-conscious,  of  a  more 
brooding,  inarticulate  nature.  She  was  richly  en 
dowed  with  all  the  womanly  instincts  and  affec 
tions.  She  had  a  decided  preference  for  Abigail  and 
me  among  her  children,  wanted  me  to  go  to  school, 
and  was  always  interceding  with  Father  to  get  me 
books.  She  never  read  one  of  my  books.  She  died 
in  1880,  at  the  age  of  seventy-three.  I  had  pub 
lished  four  of  my  books  then. 

She  had  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  in  the  fall  of 
1879,  but  lived  till  December  of  the  following  year, 
dying  on  father's  seventy-seventh  birthday.  (He 
lived  four  years  more.)  We  could  understand  but 
little  of  what  she  said  after  she  was  taken  ill.  She 
u^ed  to  repeat  a  line  from  an  old  hymn  —  "Only  a 
vuil  between." 

She  thought  a  good  deal  of  some  verses  I  wrote 
—  "My  Brother's  Farm" — and  had  them  framed. 
(You  have  seen  them  in  the  parlor  at  the  Old  Home. 
I  wrote  them  in  Washington  the  fall  that  you  were 
born.  I  was  sick  and  forlorn  at  the  time.) 

64 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

I  owe  to  Mother  my  temperament,  my  love  of 
nature,  my  brooding,  introspective  habit  of  mind 
—  all  those  things  which  in  a  literary  man  help 
to  give  atmosphere  to  his  work.  In  her  line  were 
dreamers  and  fishermen  and  hunters.  One  of  her 
uncles  lived  alone  in  a  little  house  in  the  woods. 
His  hut  was  doubtless  the  original  Slabsides.  Grand 
father  Kelly  was  a  lover  of  solitude,  as  all  dream 
ers  are,  and  Mother's  happiest  days,  I  think,  were 
those  spent  in  the  fields  after  berries.  The  Celtic 
element,  which  I  get  mostly  from  her  side,  has  no 
doubt  played  an  important  part  in  my  life.  My 
idealism,  my  romantic  tendencies,  are  largely  her 
gift. 

On  my  father's  side  I  find  no  fishermen  or  hermits 
or  dreamers.  I  find  a  marked  religious  strain,  more 
active  and  outspoken  than  on  Mother's.  The  reli 
gion  of  the  Kellys  was,  for  the  most  part,  of  the 
silent,  meditative  kind,  but  there  are  preachers 
and  teachers  and  scholars  on  Father's  side  —  one 
of  them,  Stephen  Burroughs  (b.  1765),  a  renegade 
preacher.  Doubtless  most  of  my  own  intellectual 
impetus  comes  from  this  side  of  the  family.  There 
are  also  cousins  and  second  cousins  on  this  side  who 
became  preachers,  and  some  who  became  physi 
cians,  but  I  recall  none  on  the  Kelly  side. 

In  size  and  physical  make-up  I  am  much  like  my 
father.  I  have  my  father's  foot,  and  I  detect  many 

65 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

of  his  ways  in  my  own.  My  loud  and  harmless 
barking,  when  I  am  angered,  I  get  from  him.  The 
Kellys  are  more  apt  to  bite.  I  see  myself,  too,  in 
my  brothers,  in  their  looks  and  especially  in  their 
weaknesses.  Take  from  me  my  special  intellectual 
equipment,  and  I  am  in  all  else  one  of  them. 

[Speaking  of  their  characteristics  as  a  family,  Mr. 
Burroughs  says  that  they  have  absolute  inability  to 
harbor  resentment  (a  Celtic  trait);  that  they  never 
have  "cheek"  to  ask  enough  for  what  they  have  to  sell, 
lack  decision,  and  are  easily  turned  from  their  purpose. 
Commenting  on  this,  he  has  often  said:  "We  are  weak 
as  men  —  do  not  make  ourselves  felt  in  the  com 
munity.  But  this  very  weakness  is  a  help  to  me  as  a 
writer  upon  Nature.  I  don't  stand  in  my  own  light.  I 
get  very  close  to  bird  and  beast.  My  thin  skin  lets  the 
shy  and  delicate  influences  pass.  I  can  surrender  my 
self  to  Nature  without  effort.  I  am  like  her.  .  .  .  That 
which  hinders  me  with  men,  makes  me  strong  with 
impersonal  Nature,  and  admits  me  to  her  influences. 
...  I  am  lacking  in  moral  fibre,  but  am  tender  and 
sympathetic."] 

To  see  Mr.  Burroughs  stand  and  fondly  gaze  upon  the 
fruitful,  well-cultivated  fields  that  his  father  had  cared 
for  so  many  years,  to  hear  him  say  that  the  hills  are  like 
father  and  mother  to  him,  was  to  realize  how  strong  is 
the  filial  instinct  in  him  —  that  and  the  home  feeling.  As 
he  stood  on  the  crest  of  the  big  hill  by  the  pennyroyal 
rock,  looking  down  on  the  peaceful  homestead  in  the 

66 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

soft  light  of  a  midsummer  afternoon,  his  eye  roamed 
fondly  over  the  scene :  — 

"How  fertile  and  fruitful  it  is  now,  but  how  lonely 
and  bleak  the  old  place  looked  in  that  winter  landscape 
the  night  I  drove  up  from  the  station  in  the  moonlight 
after  hearing  of  Father's  death!  There  was  a  light  in 
the  window,  but  I  knew  Father  would  not  meet  me  at 
the  door  this  time  —  beleaguering  winter  without,  and 
Death  within! 

"Father  and  Mother!  I  think  of  them  with  inexpres 
sible  love  and  yearning,  wrapped  in  their  last  eternal 
sleep.  They  had,  for  them,  the  true  religion,  the  religion 
of  serious,  simple,  hard-working,  God-fearing  lives.  To 
believe  as  they  did,  to  sit  in  their  pews,  is  impossible 
to  me  —  the  Time-Spirit  has  decreed  otherwise;  but  all 
I  am  or  can  be  or  achieve  is  to  emulate  their  virtues  — 
my  soul  can  be  saved  only  by  a  like  truthfulness  and 
sincerity." 

The  following  data  concerning  his  brothers  and  sis 
ters  were  given  me  by  Mr.  Burroughs  in  conversa 
tion: — 

Hiram,  born  in  1827,  was  an  unpractical  man  and  a 
dreamer;  he  was  a  bee-keeper.  He  showed  great  aptitude 
in  the  use  of  tools,  could  make  axe-handles,  neck-yokes, 
and  the  various  things  used  about  the  farm,  and  was 
especially  skilled  in  building  stone  walls.  But  he  could 
not  elbow  his  way  in  a  crowd,  could  not  make  farming 
pay,  and  was  always  pushed  to  the  wall.  He  cared 
nothing  for  books,  and  although  he  studied  grammar 
when  a  boy,  and  could  parse,  he  never  could  write  a 
grammatical  sentence. 


67 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Oily  Ann  was  about  two  years  younger  than  Hiram. 
Mr.  Burroughs  remembers  her  as  a  frail,  pretty  girl, 
with  dark-brown  eyes,  a  high  forehead,  and  a  wasp-like 
waist.  She  had  a  fair  education  for  her  time,  married 
and  had  two  children,  and  died  in  early  womanhood  of 
phthisis. 

Wilson  was  a  farmer,  thrifty  and  economical.  He 
married  but  had  no  children.  He  was  evidently  some 
what  neurotic;  as  a  child,  even  when  well,  he  would 
groan  and  moan  in  his  sleep,  and  he  died,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-eight,  after  a  short  illness,  of  a  delirious  fever. 

Curtis  also  was  a  farmer,  but  lacked  judgment;  could 
not  look  ahead;  thought  if  he  gave  his  note  a  debt  was 
canceled,  and  went  on  piling  up  other  indebtedness. 
He  had  a  very  meagre  schooling,  but  was  apt  at  witty 
remarks.  He  was  temperate ;  was  much  given  to  reading 
"The  Signs  of  the  Times,"  like  his  father  before  him. 
He  married  and  had  five  children.  For  many  years 
previous  to  his  death  he  lived  at  the  homestead,  dying 
there  in  his  eightieth  year,  in  the  summer  of  1912. 
Two  of  his  unmarried  children  still  live  at  the  Old 
Home,  —  of  all  places  on  the  earth  the  one  toward 
which  Mr.  Burroughs  turns  with  the  most  yearning 
fondness. 

Edmund  died  in  infancy. 

Jane,  a  tender-hearted,  old-fashioned  woman,  who 
cried  and  fretted  easily,  and  worried  over  trifles,  was  a 
good  housekeeper,  and  a  fond  mother  —  a  fat,  dumpy 
little  woman  with  a  plaintive  voice.  She  was  always 
urging  her  brother  not  to  puzzle  his  head  about  writing; 
writing  and  thinking,  she  said,  were  "bad  for  the  head." 
When  he  would  go  away  on  a  journey  of  only  a  hundred 
miles,  she  would  worry  incessantly  lest  something  hap- 

68 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

pen  to  him.  She  married  and  had  five  daughters.  Her 
death  occurred  in  May,  1912,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
seven.  "  Poor  Jane ! "  said  Mr.  Burroughs  one  day,  when 
referring  to  her  protests  against  his  writing;  "I  fear  she 
never  read  a  dozen  printed  words  of  mine  —  or  shall 
I  say  *  lucky  Jane'?" 

John,  born  in  1837,  was  always  "an  odd  one."  (One 
is  reminded  of  what  William  R.  Thayer  said  of  the 
Franklin  family :  "Among  the  seventeen  Franklin  chil 
dren  one  was  a  Benjamin,  and  the  rest  nobodies.") 

Eden  was  born  in  1839.  Frail  most  of  his  life,  in  later 
years  he  has  become  stronger,  and  now  (1913)  is  the 
only  surviving  member  of  the  family  besides  Mr.  Bur 
roughs.  He  is  cheery  and  loquacious,  methodical  and 
orderly,  and  very  punctilious  in  dress.  (One  day,  in  the 
summer  of  1912,  when  he  was  calling  at  "Woodchuck 
Lodge,"  —  the  summer  home  where  Mr.  Burroughs  has 
lived  of  late  years,  near  the  old  place  where  he  was  born, 
—  this  brother  recounted  some  of  their  youthful  ex 
ploits,  especially  the  one  which  yielded  the  material  for 
the  essay  "A  White  Day  and  a  Red  Fox."  "I  shot  the 
fox  and  got  five  dollars  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Eden  Bur 
roughs,  "and  John  wrote  a  piece  about  it,  and  got 
seventy-five.") 

Abigail,  the  favorite  sister  of  our  author,  appreciated 
her  brother's  books  and  his  ideals  more  than  any  other 
member  of  the  family.  She  married  and  had  two  chil 
dren.  At  the  time  of  her  death,  in  1901,  of  typhoid 
fever  (at  the  age  of  fifty-eight)  the  band  of  brothers  and 
sisters  had  been  unbroken  by  death  for  more  than 
thirty-seven  years.  Her  loss  was  a  severe  blow  to  her 
brother.  He  had  always  shared  his  windfalls  with  her; 
she  had  read  some  of  his  essays,  and  used  to  talk  with 

69 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

him  about  his  aspirations,  encouraging  him  timidly,  be 
fore  he  had  gained  recognition. 

Eveline  died  at  the  age  of  five  years. 

The  death  of  his  brother  Hiram,  in  1904,  made  the 
past  bleed  afresh  for  Mr.  Burroughs.  "He  was  next  to 
Father  and  Mother  in  my  affections,"  he  wrote.  "Oh! 
if  I  had  only  done  more  for  him  —  this  is  my  constant 
thought.  If  I  could  only  have  another  chance!  How 
generous  death  makes  us!  Go,  then,  and  make  up  by 
doing  more  for  the  living." 

As  I  walked  with  him  about  the  Old  Home,  he  said, 
"I  can  see  Hiram  in  everything  here;  in  the  trees  he 
planted  and  grafted,  in  these  stone  walls  he  built,  in 
this  land  he  so  industriously  cultivated  during  the  years 
he  had  the  farm." 

So  large  a  place  in  his  affections  did  this  brother  hold, 
and  yet  how  wide  apart  were  these  two  in  their  real 
lives !  I  know  of  no  one  who  has  pictured  the  pathos  of 
lives  so  near  and  yet  so  far  apart  as  has  George  Eliot 
when  she  says:  "Family  likeness  has  often  a  deep  sad 
ness  in  it.  Nature,  that  great  tragic  dramatist,  knits  us 
together  by  bone  and  muscle,  and  divides  us  by  the 
subtler  web  of  our  brains;  blends  yearning  and  repulsion, 
and  ties  us  by  our  heart-strings  to  the  beings  that  jar 
us  at  every  moment.  We  hear  a  voice  with  the  very 
cadence  of  our  own  uttering  the  thoughts  we  despise; 
we  see  eyes  —  ah!  so  like  our  mother's  —  averted  from 
us  in  cold  alienation." 

We  cannot  tell  why  one  boy  in  a  family  turns  out  a 
genius,  while  the  others  stay  in  the  ancestral  ruts  and 
lead  humdrum,  placid  lives,  any  more  than  we  can  tell 
why  one  group  of  the  hepaticas  we  gather  in  the  April 

70 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

woods  has  the  gift  of  fragrance,  while  those  of  a  sister 
group  in  the  same  vicinity  are  scentless.  A  caprice  of 
fate,  surely,  that  "mate  and  mate  beget  such  different 
issues.*' 

"Hiram  was  with  me  at  Slabsides,"  said  Mr.  Bur 
roughs,  "much  of  the  time  when  I  was  writing  the 
Whitman  book,  but  never  referred  to  it  in  any  way. 
When  it  came  from  the  press,  I  said  to  him,  *  Hiram, 
here  is  the  book  you  have  heard  me  speak  about  as 
having  cost  me  nearly  four  years'  work,  and  which  I 
rewrote  four  times.' 

"  *  That 's  the  book,  is  it?  '  he  replied,  showing  no  curi 
osity  about  it,  or  desire  to  look  into  it,  but  kept  drum 
ming  on  the  table  —  a  habit  of  his  that  was  very  annoy 
ing  to  me  at  times,  but  of  which  he  was  not  aware. 
When 'A  Year  in  the  Fields'  came  out,  he  looked  at 
some  of  the  pictures,  but  that  was  all." 

There  is  something  very  pathetic  in  all  this  —  these 
two  brothers  living  in  that  isolated  cabin  in  the  woods, 
knit  together  by  the  ties  of  kinship,  having  in  common  a 
deep  and  yearning  love  for  each  other,  and  for  the  Old 
Home  in  the  Catskills,  —  their  daily  down-sittings  and 
up-risings  outwardly  the  same,  yet  so  alienated  in  what 
makes  up  one's  real  existence.  The  one,  the  elder,  intent 
on  his  bees,  his  thoughts  by  day  revolving  about  his 
hives,  or  concerned  with  the  weather  and  the  daily 
happenings;  at  night,  as  he  idly  drums  with  his  fingers, 
dreaming  of  the  old  days  on  the  farm  —  of  how  he  used 
to  dig  out  rocks  to  build  the  fences,  of  the  sugar-making, 
of  cradling  the  oats  in  July;  while  the  other  —  ah!  the 
other,  of  what  was  he  not  thinking !  —  of  the  little  world 
of  the  hives  (his  thoughts  yielding  the  exquisite  "Idyl 
of  the  Honey-Bee"),  of  boyhood  days  upon  the  farm,  of 

71 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  wild  life  around  his  cabin,  of  the  universe,  and  of  the 
soul  of  the  poet  Whitman,  that  then  much  misunder 
stood  man,  than  whom  no  one  so  much  as  he  has  helped 
us  to  appreciate.  Going  out  and  in,  attending  to  his 
homely  tasks  (for  these  brothers  did  their  own  house 
work),  the  younger  brother  was  all  the  time  thinking 
of  that  great  soul,  of  all  that  association  with  him  had 
meant  to  him,  and  of  all  that  Whitman  would  mean  to 
America,  to  the  world,  as  poet,  prophet,  seer  —  think 
ing  how  out  of  his  knowledge  of  Whitman  as  poet 
and  person  he  could  cull  and  sift  and  gather  together  an 
adequate  and  worthy  estimate  of  one  whom  his  soul 
loved  as  Jonathan  loved  David ! 

The  mystery  of  personality  —  how  shall  one  fathom 
it?  I  asked  myself  this  one  rainy  afternoon,  as  I  sat 
in  the  Burroughs  homestead  and  looked  from  one 
brother  to  another,  the  two  so  alike  and  yet  so  unlike. 
The  one  a  simple  farmer  whose  interests  are  circum 
scribed  by  the  hills  which  surround  the  farm  on  which  as 
children  they  were  reared;  the  other,  whose  interests  in 
the  early  years  were  seemingly  just  as  circumscribed, 
but  who  felt  that  nameless  something  —  that  push  from 
within  —  which  first  found  its  outlet  in  a  deeper  interest 
in  the  life  about  him  than  his  brothers  ever  knew;  and 
who  later  felt  the  magic  of  the  world  of  books;  and,  still 
later,  the  need  of  expression,  an  expression  which  fin 
ally  showed  itself  in  a  masterly  interpretation  of  country 
life  and  experiences.  The  same  heredity  here,  the  same 
environment,  the  same  opportunities  —  yet  how  different 
the  result !  The  farmer  has  tended  and  gathered  many  a 
crop  from  the  old  place  since  they  were  boys,  but  has 
been  blind  and  deaf  to  all  that  has  there  yielded  such  a 
harvest  to  the  other.  That  other,  a  plain,  unassuming 

72 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

man,  "standing  at  ease  in  nature,"  has  become  a  house 
hold  word  because  of  all  that  he  has  contributed  to  our 
intellectual  and  emotional  life. 

A  man  who  as  a  lad  had  roamed  the  Roxbury  hills 
with  John  Burroughs  and  his  brothers,  and  had  known 
the  boy  John  as  something  of  a  dreamer,  and  thought  of 
him  in  later  years  as  perhaps  of  less  account  than  his 
brothers  (since  they  had  settled  down,  owned  land,  and 
were  leading  industrious  lives),  was  traveling  in  Europe 
in  the  eighties.  On  the  top  of  a  stage-coach  in  the  Scot 
tish  Highlands  he  sat  next  a  scholarly-looking  man 
whose  garb,  he  thought,  betokened  a  priest.  From  some 
question  which  the  traveler  put,  the  Englishman  learned 
that  the  stranger  was  from  America.  Immediately  he 
showed  a  lively  interest.  "  From  America !  Do  you,  then, 
know  John  Burroughs?" 

Imagine  the  surprise  of  the  Delaware  County  farmer 
at  being  questioned  about  his  schoolmate,  the  dreamer, 
who,  to  be  sure,  "took  to  books";  but  what  was  he  that 
this  Englishman  should  inquire  about  him  as  the  one 
man  in  America  he  was  eager  to  learn  about!  Doubt 
less  Mr.  Burroughs  was  the  one  literary  man  the  Dela 
ware  County  farmer  did  know,  though  his  knowledge 
was  on  the  personal  and  not  on  the  literary  side.  And 
imagine  the  surprise  of  the  priest  (if  priest  it  was)  to 
find  that  he  had  actually  lighted  upon  a  schoolmate  of 
the  author!  —  C.  B.] 

CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

I  seem  to  have  been  a  healthy,  active  child,  very 
impressionable,  and  with  more  interests  and  a 
keener  enjoyment  of  things  than  most  farm  boys 

73 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

have.  I  was  fond  of  the  girls  back  as  early  as  I  can 
remember,  and  had  my  sweethearts  at  a  very  early 
age.  .  .  . 

I  learned  my  letters  at  school,  when  I  was  five  or 
six,  in  the  old-fashioned  way  by  being  called  up  to 
the  teacher  several  times  a  day  and  naming  the 
letters  as  he  pointed  at  them  where  they  stood  in 
a  perpendicular  column  in  Cobb's  Spelling-Book. 
The  vowels  and  consonants  stood  in  separate  col 
umns,  and  had  to  be  learned  one  by  one,  by  con 
tinued  repetition.  It  took  me  a  long  time,  I  remem 
ber,  to  distinguish  b  from  d,  and  c  from  e.  When 
and  how  I  learned  to  read  I  do  not  remember.  I 
recall  Cobb's  Second  Reader,  and  later  Olney's 
Geography,  and  then  Dayball's  Arithmetic. 

I  went  to  school  summers  till  I  was  old  enough  to 
help  on  the  farm,  say  at  the  age  of  eleven  or  twelve, 
when  my  schooling  was  confined  to  the  winters. 

As  a  boy,  the  only  farm  work  that  appealed  to 
me  was  sugar-making  in  the  maple  woods  in  spring. 
This  I  thoroughly  enjoyed.  It  brought  me  near  to 
wild  nature  and  was  freer  from  routine  than  other 
farm  work.  Then  I  soon  managed  to  gather  a  little 
harvest  of  my  own  from  the  sugar  bush.  I  used  to 
anticipate  the  general  tapping  by  a  few  days  or  a 
week,  and  tap  a  few  trees  on  my  own  account  along 
the  sunny  border  of  the  woods,  and  boil  the  sap 
down  on  the  kitchen  stove  (to  the  disgust  of  the 

74 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

womenfolks),  selling  the  sugar  in  the  village.  I 
think  the  first  money  I  ever  earned  came  to  me  in 
this  way.  My  first  algebra  and  first  grammar  I 
bought  with  some  of  this  precious  money.  When 
I  appeared  in  the  village  with  my  basket  of  small 
cakes  of  early  sugar,  how  my  customers  would  hail 
me  and  call  after  me !  No  one  else  made  such  white 
sugar,  or  got  it  to  market  so  early.  One  season,  I 
remember,  I  got  twelve  silver  quarters  for  sugar, 
and  I  carried  them  in  my  pockets  for  weeks,  jin 
gling  them  in  the  face  of  my  envious  schoolmates, 
and  at  intervals  feasting  my  own  eyes  upon  them. 
I  fear  if  I  could  ever  again  get  hold  of  such  money 
as  that  was  I  should  become  a  miser. 

Hoeing  corn,  weeding  the  garden,  and  picking 
stone  was  drudgery,  and  haying  and  harvesting 
I  liked  best  when  they  were  a  good  way  off;  pick 
ing  up  potatoes  worried  me,  but  gathering  apples 
suited  my  hands  and  my  fancy  better,  and  knock 
ing  "Juno's  cushions"  in  the  spring  meadows  with 
my  long-handled  knocker,  about  the  time  the  first 
swallow  was  heard  laughing  overhead,  was  real  fun. 
I  always  wanted  some  element  of  play  in  my  work; 
buckling  down  to  any  sort  of  routine  always  galled 
me,  and  does  yet.  The  work  must  be  a  kind  of 
adventure,  and  permit  of  sallies  into  free  fields. 
Hence  the  most  acceptable  work  for  me  was  to  be 
sent  strawberrying  or  raspberrying  by  Mother;  but 

75 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  real  fun  was  to  go  fishing  up  Montgomery  Hol 
low,  or  over  on  Rose's  Brook,  this  necessitating  a 
long  tramp,  and  begetting  a  hunger  in  a  few  hours 
that  made  a  piece  of  rye  bread  the  most  delectable 
thing  in  the  world;  yet  a  pure  delight  that  never 
sated. 

Mother  used  to  bake  her  bread  in  the  large  old- 
fashioned  brick  oven,  and  once  or  twice  a  week  we 
boys  had  to  procure  oven  wood. 

"You  must  get  me  oven  wood  this  morning,"  she 
would  say;  "I  am  going  to  bake  to-day."  Then  we 
would  scurry  around  for  dry,  light,  quick  wood  — 
pieces  of  old  boxes  and  boards,  and  dry  limbs. 
"One  more  armful,"  she  would  often  say,  when 
we  were  inclined  to  quit  too  soon.  In  a  half-hour 
or  so,  the  wood  would  be  reduced  to  ashes,  and  the 
oven  properly  heated.  I  can  see  Mother  yet  as  she 
would  open  the  oven  door  and  feel  the  air  inside 
with  her  hand.  "Run,  quick,  and  get  me  a  few 
more  sticks  —  it  is  not  quite  hot  enough."  When  it 
was  ready,  the  coals  and  ashes  were  raked  out,  and 
in  went  the  bread,  six  or  seven  big  loaves  of  rye, 
with  usually  two  of  wheat.  The  wheat  was  for 
company. 

When  we  would  come  in  at  dinner-  or  supper-time 
and  see  wheat  bread  on  the  table  we  would  ask: 
"Who's  in  the  other  room?"  Maybe  the  answer 
would  be,  "Your  Uncle  Martin  and  Aunt  Virey." 

76 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

How  glad  I  would  be!  I  always  liked  to  see  com 
pany.  Well,  the  living  was  better,  and  then,  com 
pany  brought  a  new  element  into  the  day;  it  gave  a 
little  tinge  of  romance  to  things.  To  wake  up  in  the 
morning  and  think  that  Uncle  Martin  and  Aunt 
Virey  were  there,  or  Uncle  Edmund  and  Aunt 
Saliny,  quickened  the  pulse  a  little.  Or,  when  any 
of  my  cousins  came,  —  boys  near  my  own  age,  — 
what  joy  filled  the  days!  And  when  they  went, 
how  lonesome  I  would  be!  how  forlorn  all  things 
looked  till  the  second  or  third  day!  I  early  devel 
oped  a  love  of  comrades,  and  was  always  fond  of 
company  —  and  am  yet,  as  the  records  of  Slabsides 
show. 

I  was  quite  a  hunter  in  my  youth,  as  most  farm 
boys  are,  but  I  never  brought  home  much  game  — 
a  gray  squirrel,  a  partridge,  or  a  wild  pigeon  occa 
sionally.  I  think  with  longing  and  delight  of  the 
myriads  of  wild  pigeons  that  used  to  come  every 
two  or  three  years  —  covering  the  sky  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  making  the  naked  spring  woods  gay  and 
festive  with  their  soft  voices  and  fluttering  blue 
wings.  I  have  seen  thousands  of  them  go  through  a 
beech  wood,  like  a  blue  wave,  picking  up  the  sprout 
ing  beechnuts.  Those  in  the  rear  would  be  con 
stantly  flying  over  those  in  front,  so  that  the  effect 
was  that  of  a  vast  billow  of  mingled  white  and  blue 

77 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

and  brown,  rustling  and  murmuring  as  it  went. 
One  spring  afternoon  vast  flocks  of  them  were 
passing  south  over  our  farm  for  hours,  when  some 
of  them  began  to  pour  down  in  the  beech  woods  on 
the  hill  by  the  roadside.  A  part  of  nearly  every 
flock  that  streamed  by  would  split  off  and,  with  a 
downward  wheel  and  rush,  join  those  in  the  wood. 
Presently  I  seized  the  old  musket  and  ran  out  in 
the  road,  and  then  crept  up  behind  the  wall,  till 
only  the  width  of  the  road  separated  me  from  the 
swarms  of  fluttering  pigeons.  The  air  and  the  woods 
were  literally  blue  with  them,  and  the  ground 
seemed  a  yard  deep  with  them.  I  pointed  my  gun 
across  the  wall  at  the  surging  masses,  and  then  sat 
there  spellbound.  The  sound  of  their  wings  and 
voices  filled  my  ears,  and  their  numbers  more  than 
filled  my  eyes.  Why  I  did  not  shoot  was  never  very 
clear  to  me.  Maybe  I  thought  the  world  was  all 
turning  to  pigeons,  as  they  still  came  pouring  down 
from  the  heavens,  and  I  did  not  want  to  break  the 
spell.  There  I  sat  waiting,  waiting,  with  my  eye 
looking  along  the  gun-barrel,  till,  suddenly,  the 
mass  rose  like  an  explosion,  and  with  a  rush  and  a 
roar  they  were  gone.  Then  I  came  to  my  senses 
and  with  keen  mortification  realized  what  an  op 
portunity  I  had  let  slip.  Such  a  chance  never  came 
again,  though  the  last  great  flight  of  pigeons  did 
not  take  place  till  1875. 

78 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

When  I  was  about  ten  or  twelve,  a  spell  was  put 
upon  me  by  a  red  fox  in  a  similar  way.  The  baying 
of  a  hound  upon  the  mountain  had  drawn  me  there, 
armed  with  the  same  old  musket.  It  was  a  chilly 
day  in  early  December.  I  took  up  my  stand  in  the 
woods  near  what  I  thought  might  be  the  runway, 
and  waited.  After  a  while  I  stood  the  butt  of  my 
gun  upon  the  ground,  and  held  the  barrel  with  my 
hand.  Presently  I  heard  a  rustle  in  the  leaves,  and 
there  came  a  superb  fox  loping  along  past  me,  not 
fifty  feet  away.  He  was  evidently  not  aware  of  my 
presence,  and,  as  for  me,  I  was  aware  of  his  pres 
ence  alone.  I  forgot  that  I  had  a  gun,  that  here  was 
the  game  I  was  in  quest  of,  and  that  now  was  my 
chance  to  add  to  my  store  of  silver  quarters.  As  the 
unsuspecting  fox  disappeared  over  a  knoll,  again  I 
came  to  my  senses,  and  brought  my  gun  to  my 
shoulder;  but  it  was  too  late,  the  game  had  gone.  I 
returned  home  full  of  excitement  at  what  I  had 
seen,  and  gave  as  the  excuse  why  I  did  not  shoot, 
that  I  had  my  mitten  on,  and  could  not  reach  the 
trigger  of  my  gun.  It  is  true  I  had  my  mitten  on, 
but  there  was  a  mitten,  or  something,  on  my  wits 
also.  It  was  years  before  I  heard  the  last  of  that 
mitten;  when  I  failed  at  anything  they  said,  "John 
had  his  mitten  on,  I  guess." 

I  remember  that  I  had  a  sort  of  cosmogony  of 
my  own  when  I  was  a  mere  boy.  I  used  to  speculate 

79 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

as  to  what  the  world  was  made  of.  Partly  closing 
nay  eyes,  I  could  see  what  appeared  to  be  little 
crooked  chains  of  fine  bubbles  floating  in  the  air, 
and  I  concluded  that  that  was  the  stuff  the  world 
was  made  of.  And  the  philosophers  have  not  yet 
arrived  at  a  much  more  satisfactory  explanation. 
In  thinking  of  my  childhood  and  youth  I  try  to 
define  to  myself  wherein  I  differed  from  my  brothers 
and  from  other  boys  in  the  neighborhood,  or  where 
in  I  showed  any  indication  of  the  future  bent  of  my 
mind.  I  see  that  I  was  more  curious  and  alert  than 
most  boys,  and  had  more  interests  outside  my 
special  duties  as  a  farm  boy.  I  knew  pretty  well  the 
ways  of  the  wild  bees  and  hornets  when  I  was  only 
a  small  lad.  I  knew  the  different  bumblebees,  and 
had  made  a  collection  of  their  combs  and  honey 
before  I  had  entered  my  teens.  I  had  watched  the 
little  frogs,  the  hylas,  and  had  captured  them  and 
held  them  till  they  piped  sitting  in  my  hand.  I  had 
watched  the  leaf-cutters  and  followed  them  to 
their  nests  in  an  old  rail,  or  under  a  stone.  I  see 
that  I  early  had  an  interest  in  the  wild  life  about 
me  that  my  brothers  did  not  have.  I  was  a  natu 
ral  observer  from  childhood,  had  a  quick,  sure  eye 
and  ear,  and  an  eager  curiosity.  I  loved  to  roam 
the  hills  and  woods  and  prowl  along  the  streams, 
just  to  come  in  contact  with  the  wild  and  the  adven 
turous.  I  was  not  sent  to  Sunday-school,  but  was 

80 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

allowed  to  spend  the  day  as  I  saw  fit,  provided  I 
did  not  carry  a  gun  or  a  fishing-rod.  Indeed,  the 
foundation  of  my  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the 
wild  creatures  was  laid  when  I  was  a  farm  boy, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  natural-history  value  of 
my  observations. 

What,  or  who,  as  I  grew  up,  gave  my  mind  its 
final  push  in  this  direction  would  not  be  easy  to 
name.  It  is  quite  certain  that  I  got  it  through 
literature,  and  more  especially  through  the  works 
of  Audubon,  when  I  was  twenty-five  or  twenty-six 
years  of  age. 

The  sentiment  of  nature  is  so  full  and  winsome 
in  the  best  modern  literature  that  I  was  no  doubt 
greatly  influenced  by  it.  I  was  early  drawn  to 
Wordsworth  and  to  our  own  Emerson  and  Tho- 
reau,  and  to  the  nature  articles  in  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly,"  and  my  natural-history  tastes  were 
stimulated  by  them. 

I  have  a  suspicion  that  "nature-study"  as  now 
followed  in  the  schools  —  or  shall  I  say  in  the  col 
leges? —  this  classroom  peeping  and  prying  into 
the  mechanism  of  Me,  dissecting,  probing,  tabu 
lating,  void  of  free  observation,  and  shut  away 
from  the  open  air  —  would  have  cured  me  of  my 
love  of  nature.  For  love  is  the  main  thing,  the 
prime  thing,  and  to  train  the  eye  and  ear  and 
acquaint  one  with  the  spirit  of  the  great-out-of- 

81 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

doors,  rather  than  a  lot  of  minute  facts  about 
nature,  is,  or  should  be,  the  object  of  nature-study. 
Who  cares  about  the  anatomy  of  the  frog?  But  to 
know  the  live  frog  —  his  place  in  the  season  and 
the  landscape,  and  his  life-history  —  is  something. 
If  I  wanted  to  instill  the  love  of  nature  into  a 
child's  heart,  I  should  do  it,  in  the  first  place, 
through  country  life,  and,  in  the  next  place,  through 
the  best  literature,  rather  than  through  classroom 
investigations,  or  through  books  of  facts  about  the 
mere  mechanics  of  nature.  Biology  is  all  right  for 
the  few  who  wish  to  specialize  in  that  branch,  but 
for  the  mass  of  pupils,  it  is  a  waste  of  time.  Love  of 
nature  cannot  be  commanded  or  taught,  but  in 
some  minds  it  can  be  stimulated. 

Sweet  were  the  days  of  my  youth !  How  I  love  to 
recall  them  and  dwell  upon  them !  —  a  world  apart, 
separated  from  the  present  by  a  gulf  like  that  of 
sidereal  space.  The  old  farm  bending  over  the  hills 
and  dipping  down  into  the  valleys,  the  woods,  the 
streams,  the  springs,  the  mountains,  and  Father  and 
Mother  under  whose  wings  I  was  so  protected,  and 
all  my  brothers  and  sisters  —  how  precious  the 
thought  of  them  all !  Can  the  old  farm  ever  mean 
to  future  boys  what  it  meant  to  me,  and  enter  so 
deeply  into  their  lives?  No  doubt  it  can,  hard  as 
it  is  to  believe  it.  The  "Rundle  place,"  the  "barn 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

on  the  hill,"  the  "Deacon  woods,"  the  clover  mea 
dow,  the  "turn  in  the  road,"  the  burying-ground, 
the  sheep-lot,  the  bush-lot,  the  sumac-lot,  the 
"new-barn meadow,"  the  "  old-barn  meadow,"  and 
so  on  through  the  list  —  each  field  and  section  of 
the  farm  had  to  me  an  atmosphere  and  association 
of  its  own.  The  long,  smooth,  broad  hill  —  a  sort  of 
thigh  of  the  mountain  (Old  Clump)  upon  the  lower 
edge  of  which  the  house  is  planted  —  shut  off  the 
west  and  southwest  winds;  its  fields  were  all  amen 
able  to  the  plough,  yielding  good  crops  of  oats,  rye, 
buckwheat,  potatoes,  or,  when  in  grass,  yielding 
good  pasture,  divided  east  and  west  by  parallel 
stone  walls;  this  hill,  or  lower  slope  of  the  moun 
tain,  was  one  of  the  principal  features  of  the  farm. 
It  was  steep,  but  it  was  smooth;  it  was  broad- 
backed  and  fertile;  its  soil  was  made  up  mainly  of 
decomposed  old  red  sandstone.  How  many  times 
have  I  seen  its  different  sections  grow  ruddy  under 
the  side-hill  plough!  One  of  my  earliest  recollec 
tions  of  my  father  is  seeing  him,  when  I  was  a  child 
of  three  or  four,  striding  across  the  middle  side- 
hill  lot  with  a  bag  slung  across  his  breast,  scatter 
ing  the  seed-grain. 

How  often  at  early  nightfall,  while  the  west  was 
yet  glowing,  have  I  seen  the  grazing  cattle  sil 
houetted  against  the  sky.  In  the  winter  the  north 
west  winds  would  sweep  the  snow  clean  from  the 

83 


OUK  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

other  side,  and  bring  it  over  to  our  side  and  leave  it 
in  a  long,  huge  drift  that  buried  the  fences  and  gave 
the  hill  an  extra  full-breasted  appearance.  The 
breast  of  the  old  hill  would  be  padded  with  ten  or 
fifteen  feet  of  snow.  This  drift  would  often  last  till 
May.  I  have  seen  it  stop  the  plough.  I  remember 
once  carrying  a  jug  of  water  up  to  Brother  Curtis 
when  his  plough  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
snow.  Woodchucks  would  sometimes  feel  the  spring 
through  this  thick  coverlid  of  snow  and  bore  up 
through  it  to  the  sunlight.  I  think  the  woodchuck's 
alarm  clock  always  goes  off  before  April  is  done, 
and  he  comes  forth,  apparently  not  to  break  his 
long  fast,  but  to  find  his  mate. 

I  remember  working  in  oats  in  the  middle  side- 
hill  lot  one  September  during  the  early  years  of  the 
Civil  War,  when  Hiram  was  talking  of  enlisting  as 
a  drummer,  and  when  Father  and  Mother  were 
much  worried  about  it.  I  carried  together  the 
sheaves,  putting  fifteen  in  a  "shock." 

I  have  heard  my  father  tell  of  a  curious  incident 
that  once  befell  his  hired  man  and  himself  when 
they  were  drawing  in  oats  on  a  sled  from  the  first 
side-hill  lot.  They  had  on  a  load,  and  the  hired 
man  had  thrust  his  fork  into  the  upper  sides  of  it 
and  was  bringing  his  weight  to  bear  against  its 
tendency  to  capsize.  But  gravity  got  the  better  of 
them  and  over  went  the  load;  the  hired  man  (Reub 

84 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

Dart)  clung  to  his  fork,  and  swung  over  the  load 
through  the  air,  alighting  on  his  feet  none  the  worse 
for  the  adventure. 

The  spring  that  supplies  the  house  and  the  dairy 
with  water  comes  from  the  middle  side-hill  lot, 
some  forty  or  fifty  rods  from  the  house,  and  is  now 
brought  down  in  pipes;  in  my  time,  in  pump-logs. 
It  was  always  an  event  when  the  old  logs  had  to  be 
taken  up  and  new  ones  put  down.  I  saw  the  logs 
renewed  twice  in  my  time;  once  poplar  logs  were 
used,  and  once  hemlock,  both  rather  short-lived. 
A  man  from  a  neighboring  town  used  to  come  with 
his  long  auger  and  bore  the  logs  —  a  spectacle  I  was 
never  tired  of  looking  at. 

Then  the  sap  bush  in  the  groin  of  the  hill,  and 
but  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  house,  what  a 
feature  that  was !  In  winter  and  in  summer,  what 
delightful  associations  I  have  with  it !  I  know  each 
of  its  great  sugar  maples  as  I  know  my  friends  or 
the  members  of  the  family.  Each  has  a  character  of 
its  own,  and  in  sap-producing  capacity  they  differ 
greatly.  A  fringe  of  the  great  trees  stood  out  in  the 
open  fields;  these  were  the  earliest  to  run. 

In  early  March  we  used  to  begin  to  make  ready 
for  sugar-making  by  overhauling  the  sap  "spiles," 
resharpening  the  old  ones,  and  making  new  ones. 
The  old-fashioned  awkward  sap-gouge  was  used  hi 
tapping  in  those  days,  and  the  "spiles"  or  spouts 

85 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

were  split  out  of  basswood  blocks  with  this  gouge, 
and  then  sharpened  so  as  to  fit  the  half-round  gash 
which  the  gouge  made  in  the  tree.  The  dairy  milk- 
pans  were  used  to  catch  the  sap,  and  huge  iron  ket 
tles  to  boil  it  down  in. 

When  the  day  came  to  tap  the  bush,  the  cal 
drons,  the  hogsheads,  and  the  two  hundred  or  more 
pans  with  the  bundles  of  spiles  were  put  upon  the 
sled  and  drawn  by  the  oxen  up  to  the  boiling- 
place  in  the  sap  bush.  Father  and  Brother  Hiram 
did  the  tapping,  using  an  axe  to  cut  the  gash  in  the 
tree,  and  to  drive  in  the  gouge  below  it  to  make 
a  place  for  the  spile,  while  one  of  my  younger 
brothers  and  I  carried  the  pans  and  placed  them 
in  position. 

It  was  always  a  glad  time  with  me;  the  early 
birds  were  singing  and  calling,  the  snowbanks  were 
melting,  the  fields  were  getting  bare,  the  roads 
drying,  and  spring  tokens  were  on  every  hand.  We 
gathered  the  sap  by  hand  in  those  days,  two  pails 
and  a  neck-yoke.  It  was  sturdy  work.  We  would 
usually  begin  about  three  or  four  o'clock,  and  by 
five  have  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  pailfuls  of  sap 
in  the  hogsheads.  When  the  sap  ran  all  night,  we 
would  begin  the  gathering  in  the  morning.  The 
syruping-off  usually  took  place  at  the  end  of  the 
second  day's  boiling,  when  two  or  three  hundred 
pailfuls  of  sap  had  been  reduced  to  four  or  five  of 

86 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

syrup.  In  the  March  or  April  twilight,  or  maybe 
after  dark,  we  would  carry  those  heavy  pails  of 
syrup  down  to  the  house,  where  the  liquid  was 
strained  while  still  hot.  The  reduction  of  it  to 
.iugar  was  done  upon  the  kitchen  stove,  from  three 
hundred  to  five  hundred  pounds  being  about  the 
average  annual  yield. 

The  bright  warm  days  at  the  boiling-place  I  love 
best  to  remember;  the  robins  running  about  over 
the  bare  ground  or  caroling  from  the  treetops,  the 
nuthatches  calling,  the  crows  walking  about  the 
brown  fields,  the  bluebirds  flitting  here  and  there, 
the  cows  lowing  or  restless  in  the  barnyard. 

When  I  think  of  the  storied  lands  across  the 
Atlantic,  —  England,  France,  Germany,  Italy,  so 
rich  in  historical  associations,  steeped  in  legend  and 
poetry,  the  very  look  of  the  fields  redolent  of  the 
past,  —  and  then  turn  to  my  own  native  hills,  how 
poor  and  barren  they  seem!  —  not  one  touch  any 
where  of  that  which  makes  the  charm  of  the  Old 
World  —  no  architecture,  no  great  names;  in  fact, 
no  past.  They  look  naked  and  prosy,  yet  how  I 
love  them  and  cling  to  them !  They  are  written  over 
with  the  lives  of  the  first  settlers  that  cleared  the 
fields  and  built  the  stone  walls  —  simple,  common 
place  lives,  worthy  and  interesting,  but  without  the 
appeal  of  heroism  or  adventure. 

87 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

The  land  here  is  old,  geologically,  dating  back 
to  the  Devonian  Age,  the  soil  in  many  places  of 
decomposed  old  red  sandstone;  but  it  is  new  in 
human  history,  having  been  settled  only  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years. 

Time  has  worn  down  the  hills  and  mountains  so 
that  all  the  outlines  of  the  country  are  gentle  and 
flowing.  The  valleys  are  long,  open,  and  wide;  the 
hills  broad  and  smooth,  no  angles  or  abruptness,  or 
sharp  contrasts  anywhere.  Hence  it  is  not  what  is 
called  a  picturesque  land  —  full  of  bits  of  scenery 
that  make  the  artist's  fingers  itch.  The  landscape 
has  great  repose  and  gentleness,  so  far  as  long, 
sweeping  lines  and  broad,  smooth  slopes  can  give 
this  impression.  It  is  a  land  which  has  never 
suffered  violence  at  the  hands  of  the  interior  terres 
trial  forces;  nothing  is  broken  or  twisted  or  con 
torted  or  thrust  out  or  up  abruptly.  The  strata 
are  all  horizontal,  and  the  steepest  mountain- 
slopes  clothed  with  soil  that  nourishes  large  forest 
growths. 

I  stayed  at  home,  working  on  the  farm  in  sum 
mer  and  going  to  school  in  winter,  till  I  was  seven 
teen.  From  the  time  I  was  fourteen  I  had  had  a 
desire  to  go  away  to  school.  I  had  a  craving  for 
knowledge  which  my  brothers  did  not  share.  One 
fall  when  I  was  about  fifteen  I  had  the  promise 

88 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

from  Father  that  I  might  go  to  school  at  the  Acad 
emy  in  the  village  that  winter.  But  I  did  not  go. 
Then  the  next  fall  I  had  the  promise  of  going  to  the 
Academy  at  Harper sfield,  where  one  of  the  neigh 
bor's  boys,  Dick  Van  Dyke,  went.  How  I  dreamed 
of  Harpersfield!  That  fall  I  did  my  first  ploughing, 
stimulated  to  it  by  the  promise  of  Harpersfield. 
It  was  in  September,  in  the  lot  above  the  sugar 
bush  —  cross-ploughing,  to  prepare  the  ground  for 
rye.  How  many  days  I  ploughed,  I  do  not  re 
member;  but  Harpersfield  was  the  lure  at  the 
end  of  each  furrow,  I  remember  that.  To  this 
day  I  cannot  hear  the  name  without  seeing  a 
momentary  glow  upon  my  mental  horizon  —  a 
finger  of  enchantment  is  for  an  instant  laid  upon 
me. 

But  I  did  not  go  to  Harpersfield.  When  the  time 
drew  near  for  me  to  go,  Father  found  himself  too 
poor,  or  the  expense  looked  too  big  —  none  of  the 
other  boys  had  had  such  privileges,  and  why  should 
I  ?  So  I  swallowed  my  disappointment  and  at 
tended  the  home  district  school  for  another  winter. 
Yet  I  am  not  sure  but  I  went  to  Harpersfield  after 
all.  The  desire,  the  yearning  to  go,  the  effort  to 
make  myself  worthy  to  go,  the  mental  awakening, 
and  the  high  dreams,  were  the  main  matter.  I 
doubt  if  the  reality  would  have  given  me  anything 
more  valuable  than  these  things.  The  aspiration 

89 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

for  knowledge  opens  the  doors  of  the  mind  and 
makes  ready  for  her  coming. 

These  were  my  first  and  last  days  at  the  plough, 
and  they  made  that  field  memorable  to  me.  I  never 
cross  it  now  but  I  see  myself  there  —  a  callow 
youth  being  jerked  by  the  plough-handles  but 
with  my  head  in  a  cloud  of  alluring  day-dreams. 
This,  I  think,  was  in  the  fall  of  1853.  I  went  to 
school  that  winter  with  a  view  to  leaving  home  in 
the  spring  to  try  my  luck  at  school-teaching  in  an 
adjoining  county.  Many  Roxbury  boys  had  made 
their  first  start  in  the  world  by  going  to  Ulster 
County  to  teach  a  country  school.  I  would  do  the 
same.  So,  late  in  March,  1854,  about  the  end  of  the 
sugar  season,  I  set  out  for  Olive,  Ulster  County. 
An  old  neighbor,  Dr.  Hull,  lived  there,  and  I  would 
seek  him. 

There  was  only  a  stage-line  at  that  time  connect 
ing  the  two  counties,  and  that  passed  twelve  miles 
from  my  home.  My  plan  was  to  cross  the  mountain 
into  Red  Kill  to  Uncle  Martin  Kelly's,  pass  the 
night  there,  and  in  the  morning  go  to  Clovesville, 
three  miles  distant,  and  take  the  stage.  How  well  I 
remember  that  walk  across  the  mountain  in  a  snow- 
squall  through  which  the  sun  shone  dimly,  a  black 
oilcloth  satchel  in  my  hand,  and  in  my  heart  vague 
yearnings  and  forebodings !  I  had  but  a  few  dollars 
in  my  pocket,  probably  six  or  seven,  most  of  which 

90 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

I  had  earned  by  selling  maple  sugar.  Father  was 
willing  I  should  go,  though  my  help  was  needed  on 
the  farm. 

Well,  I  traversed  the  eight  miles  to  my  uncle's  in 
good  time,  and  in  the  morning  he  drove  me  down  to 
the  turnpike  to  take  the  stage.  I  remember  well 
my  anxious  and  agitated  state  of  mind  while  wait 
ing  at  the  hotel  for  the  arrival  of  the  stage.  I  had 
never  ridden  in  one,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  had 
even  seen  one,  and  I  did  not  know  just  what  was 
expected  of  me,  or  just  how  I  should  deport  myself. 
An  untraveled  farm  boy  at  seventeen  is  such  a 
vague  creature  anyway,  and  I  was,  in  addition, 
such  a  bundle  of  sensibilities,  timidities,  and  em 
barrassments  as  few  farm  boys  are.  I  paid  my  fare 
at  the  hotel  at  the  rate  of  a  sixpence  a  mile  for 
about  thirty-two  miles,  and  when  the  stage  came, 
saw  my  name  entered  upon  the  "waybill,"  and  got 
aboard  with  a  beating  heart. 

Of  that  first  ride  of  my  life  in  a  public  convey 
ance,  I  remember  little.  The  stage  was  one  of  those 
old-fashioned  rocking  Concord  coaches,  drawn  by 
four  horses.  We  soon  left  the  snow-clad  hills  of 
Delaware  County  behind,  and  dropped  down  into 
the  milder  climate  of  Ulster,  where  no  snow  was  to 
be  seen.  About  three  in  the  afternoon  the  stage  put 
me  down  at  Terry's  Tavern  on  the  "plank>road"  in 
Olive.  I  inquired  the  way  to  Dr.  Hull's  and  found 

91 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  walk  of  about  a  mile  an  agreeable  change.  The 
doctor  and  his  wife  welcomed  me  cordially.  They 
were  old  friends  of  my  family.  I  spent  a  day  with 
them,  riding  about  with  the  doctor  on  his  visits  to 
patients,  and  making  inquiries  for  a  school  in  want 
of  a  teacher.  On  the  third  day  we  heard  of  a  va 
cancy  in  a  district  in  the  west  end  of  the  town,  seven 
or  eight  miles  distant,  called  Tongore.  Hither  I 
walked  one  day,  saw  the  trustees,  and  made  my  ap 
plication.  I  suspect  my  youth  and  general  green 
ness  caused  them  to  hesitate;  they  would  consider 
and  let  me  know  inside  of  a  week.  So,  in  a  day  or 
two,  hearing  of  no  other  vacancies,  I  returned  home 
the  same  way  I  had  come.  It  was  the  first  day  of 
April  when  I  made  the  return  trip.  I  remember 
this  because  at  one  of  the  hotels  where  we  changed 
horses  I  saw  a  copper  cent  lying  upon  the  floor, 
and,  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  found  it  nailed  fast. 
The  bartender  and  two  or  three  other  spectators 
had  a  quiet  chuckle  at  my  expense.  Before  the 
week  was  out  a  letter  came  from  the  Tongore  trus 
tees  saying  I  could  have  the  school;  wages,  ten 
dollars  the  first  month,  and,  if  I  proved  satisfac 
tory,  eleven  for  the  other  five  months,  and  "board 
around." 

I  remember  the  handwriting  of  that  letter  as  if 
I  had  received  it  but  yesterday.  "Come  at  your 
earliest  opportunity."  How  vividly  I  recall  the 

92 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

round  hand  in  which  those  words  were  written!  I 
replied  that  I  would  be  on  hand  the  next  week, 
ready  to  open  school  on  Monday,  the  llth. 

Again  I  took  the  stage,  my  father  driving  me 
twelve  miles  to  Dimmick's  Corners  to  meet  it,  a 
trip  which  he  made  with  me  many  times  in  after 
years,  Mother  always  getting  up  and  preparing 
our  breakfast  long  before  daylight.  We  were  al 
ways  in  a  more  or  less  anxious  frame  of  mind  upon 
the  road  lest  we  be  too  late  for  the  stage,  but  only 
once  during  the  many  trips  did  we  miss  it.  On  that 
occasion  it  had  passed  a  few  minutes  before  we 
arrived,  but,  knowing  it  stopped  for  breakfast  at 
Griffin's  Corners,  four  or  five  miles  beyond,  I 
hastened  on  afoot,  running  most  of  the  way,  and 
arrived  in  sight  of  it  just  as  the  driver  had  let  off 
the  first  crack  from  his  whip  to  start  his  reluctant 
horses.  My  shouting  was  quickly  passed  to  him 
by  the  onlookers,  he  pulled  up,  and  I  won  the  race 
quite  out  of  breath. 

On  the  present  occasion  we  were  in  ample  time, 
and  my  journey  ended  at  Shokan,  from  which  place 
I  walked  the  few  miles  to  Tongore,  in  the  late  April 
afternoon.  The  little  frogs  were  piping,  and  I 
remember  how  homesick  the  familiar  spring  sound 
made  me.  As  I  walked  along  the  road  near  sun 
down  with  this  sound  in  my  ears,  I  saw  coming 
toward  me  a  man  with  a  gait  as  familiar  as  was  the 

93 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

piping  of  the  frogs.  He  turned  out  to  be  our  neigh 
bor  Warren  Scudder,  and  how  delighted  I  was  to 
see  him  in  that  lonesome  land!  He  had  sold  a  yoke 
of  oxen  down  there  and  had  been  down  to  deliver 
them.  The  home  ties  pulled  very  strongly  at  sight 
of  him.  Warren's  three  boys,  Reub  and  Jack  and 
Smith,  were  our  nearest  boy  neighbors.  His  father, 
old  Deacon  Scudder,  was  one  of  the  notable  char 
acters  of  the  town.  Warren  himself  had  had  some 
varied  experiences.  He  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  the 
anti-rent  war  of  ten  years  before.  Indeed,  he  was 
chief  of  the  band  of  "Indians"  that  shot  Steel,  the 
sheriff,  at  Andes,  and  it  was  charged  that  the  bullet 
from  his  pistol  was  the  one  that  did  the  fatal  work. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  had  to  flee  the  country,  escap 
ing  concealed  in  a  peddler's  cart,  while  close 
pressed  by  the  posse.  He  went  South  and  was 
absent  several  years.  After  the  excitement  of  the 
murder  and  the  struggle  between  the  two  factions 
had  died  down,  he  returned  and  was  not  molested. 
And  here  he  was  in  the  April  twilight,  on  my  path 
to  Tongore,  and  the  sight  of  him  cheered  my  heart. 

I  began  my  school  Monday  morning,  April  the 
llth,  1854,  and  continued  it  for  six  months,  teach 
ing  the  common  branches  to  twenty  or  thirty  pupils 
from  the  ages  of  six  to  twelve  or  thirteen.  I  can 
distinctly  recall  the  faces  of  many  of  those  boys 

94 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

and  girls  to  this  day — Jane  North,  a  slender,  clean- 
cut  girl  of  ten  or  eleven;  Elizabeth  McClelland, 
a  fat,  freckled  girl  of  twelve ;  Alice  Twilliger,  a  thin, 
talkative  girl  with  a  bulging  forehead.  Two  or  three 
of  the  boys  became  soldiers  in  the  Civil  War,  and 
fell  in  the  battle  of  Gettysburg. 

[In  April,  1912,  Mr.  Burroughs  received  the  follow 
ing:  "Hearty  congratulations  upon  your  seventy-fifth 
birthday,  from  your  old  Tongore  pupil  of  many  years  ago. 

R — 


I  "boarded  round,"  going  home  with  the  chil 
dren  as  they  invited  me.  I  was  always  put  in  the 
spare  room,  and  usually  treated  to  warm  biscuit 
and  pie  for  supper.  A  few  families  were  very  poor, 
and  there  I  was  lucky  to  get  bread  and  pota 
toes.  In  one  house  I  remember  the  bedstead  was 
very  shaky,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  as  I 
turned  over,  it  began  to  sway  and  lurch,  and 
presently  all  went  down  in  a  heap.  But  I  clung  to 
the  wreck  till  morning,  and  said  nothing  about  it 
then. 

I  remember  that  a  notable  eclipse  of  the  sun 
occurred  that  spring  on  the  26th  of  May,  when 
the  farmers  were  planting  their  corn. 

What  books  I  read  that  summer  I  cannot  recall. 
Yes,  I  recall  one  —  "The  Complete  Letter- Writer," 
which  I  bought  of  a  peddler,  and  upon  which  I 

95 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

modeled  many  of  my  letters  to  various  persons, 
among  others  to  a  Roxbury  girl  for  whom  I  had 
a  mild  fancy.  My  first  letter  to  a  girl  I  wrote 
to  her,  and  a  ridiculously  stiff,  formal,  and  awk 
ward  letter  it  was,  I  assure  you.  I  am  positive 
I  addressed  her  as  "  Dear  Madam,"  and  started  off 
with  some  sentence  from  "The  Complete  Letter- 
Writer,"  so  impressed  was  I  that  there  was  a  best 
way  to  do  this  thing,  and  that  the  book  pointed  it 
out.  Mary's  reply  was,  "To  my  absent,  but  not 
forgotten  friend,"  and  was  simple  and  natural  as 
girls'  letters  usually  are.  My  Grandfather  Kelly 
died  that  season,  and  I  recall  that  I  wrote  a  letter 
of  condolence  to  my  people,  modeled  upon  one  in 
the  book.  How  absurd  and  stilted  and  unreal  it 
must  have  sounded  to  them! 

Oh,  how  crude  and  callow  and  obtuse  I  was  at 
that  time,  full  of  vague  and  tremulous  aspirations 
and  awakenings,  but  undisciplined,  uninformed, 
with  many  inherited  incapacities  and  obstacles  to 
weigh  me  down.  I  was  extremely  bashful,  had  no 
social  aptitude,  and  was  likely  to  stutter  when  anx 
ious  or  embarrassed,  yet  I  seem  to  have  made  a  good 
impression.  I  was  much  liked  in  school  and  out, 
and  was  fairly  happy.  I  seem  to  see  sunshine  over 
all  when  I  look  back  there.  But  it  was  a  long  sum 
mer  to  me.  I  had  never  been  from  home  more  than 

96 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

a  day  or  two  at  a  time  before,  and  I  became  very 
homesick.  Oh,  to  walk  in  the  orchard  back  of  the 
house,  or  along  the  road,  or  to  see  the  old  hills  again 
—  what  a  joy  it  would  have  been !  But  I  stuck 
it  out  till  my  term  ended  in  October,  and  then 
went  home,  taking  a  young  fellow  from  the 
district  (a  brother  of  some  girls  I  fancied)  with  me. 
I  took  back  nearly  all  my  wages,  over  fifty 
dollars,  and  with  this  I  planned  to  pay  my  way 
at  Hedding  Literary  Institute,  in  the  adjoin 
ing  county  of  Greene,  during  the  coming  winter 
term. 

I  left  home  for  the  school  late  in  November, 
riding  the  thirty  miles  with  Father,  atop  a  load  of 
butter.  It  was  the  time  of  year  when  the  farmers 
took  their  butter  to  Catskill.  Father  usually  made 
two  trips.  This  was  the  first  one  of  the  season,  and 
I  accompanied  him  as  far  as  Ashland,  where  the 
Institute  was  located. 

I  remained  at  school  there  three  months,  the 
length  of  the  winter  term,  and  studied  fairly  hard. 
I  had  a  room  by  myself  and  enjoyed  the  life  with 
the  two  hundred  or  more  boys  and  girls  of  my 
own  age.  I  studied  algebra,  geometry,  chemistry, 
French,  and  logic,  wrote  compositions,  and  de 
claimed  in  the  chapel,  as  the  rules  required.  It  was 
at  this  time  that  I  first  read  Milton.  We  had  to 
parse  in  "Paradise  Lost,"  and  I  recall  how  I  was 

97 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

shocked  and  astonished  by  that  celestial  warfare. 
I  told  one  of  my  classmates  that  I  did  not  believe  a 
word  of  it.  Among  my  teachers  was  a  young,  deli 
cate,  wide-eyed  man  who  in  later  life  became  well 
known  as  Bishop  Hurst,  of  the  Methodist  Church. 
He  heard  our  small  class  in  logic  at  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  in  a  room  that  was  never  quite 
warmed  by  the  newly  kindled  fire.  I  don't  know 
how  I  came  to  study  logic  (Whately 's) .  I  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  study  before;  maybe  that  is  why  I 
chose  it.  I  got  little  out  of  it.  What  an  absurd 
study,  taught,  as  it  was,  as  an  aid  to  argumentation! 
—  like  teaching  a  man  to  walk  by  explaining  to 
him  the  mechanism  of  walking.  The  analysis  of  one 
sound  argument,  or  of  one  weak  one,  in  terms  of 
common  sense,  is  worth  any  amount  of  such  stuff. 
But  it  was  of  a  piece  with  grammar  and  rhetoric 
as  then  taught ; —  all  preposterous  studies  viewed 
as  helps  toward  correct  writing  and  speaking. 
Think  of  our  parsing  Milton  as  an  aid  to  mastering 
the  English  language! 

I  remember  I  stood  fairly  high  in  composition  — 
only  one  boy  in  the  school  ahead  of  me,  and  that 
was  Herman  Coons,  to  whom  I  became  much 
attached,  and  who  became  a  Methodist  minister. 
He  went  home  with  me  during  the  holiday  vaca 
tion.  After  leaving  school  we  corresponded  for 
several  years,  and  then  lost  track  of  each  other. 

98 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

I  do  not  know  that  there  is  one  of  my  school 
mates  of  that  time  now  living.  I  know  of  none  that 
became  eminent  in  any  field.  One  of  the  boys 
was  fatally  injured  that  winter  while  coasting.  I 
remember  sitting  up  with  him  many  nights  and 
ministering  to  him.  He  died  in  a  few  weeks. 

It  was  an  event  when  Father  and  Mother  came 
to  visit  me  for  a  few  hours,  and  Mother  brought 
me  some  mince  pies.  What  feasts  two  or  three 
other  boys  and  I  had  in  my  room  over  those  home 
made  pies! 

Toward  spring  we  had  a  public  debate  in  the 
chapel,  and  I  was  chosen  as  one  of  the  disputants. 
We  debated  the  question  of  the  Crimean  War, 
which  was  on  then.  I  was  on  the  side  of  England 
and  France  against  Russia.  Our  side  won.  I  think  I 
spoke  very  well.  I  remember  that  I  got  much  of 
my  ammunition  from  a  paper  in  "Harper's  Maga 
zine,"  probably  by  Dr.  Osgood.  It  seems  my  fel 
low  on  the  affirmative  had  got  much  of  his  ammu 
nition  from  the  same  source,  and,  as  I  spoke  first, 
there  was  not  much  powder  left  for  him,  and  he 
was  greatly  embarrassed. 

What  insignificant  things  one  remembers  in  a 
world  of  small  events!  I  recall  how  one  morning 
when  we  had  all  gathered  in  chapel  for  prayers, 
none  of  the  professors  appeared  on  the  platform  but 
our  French  teacher,  and,  as  praying  for  us  was  not 

99 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

one  of  his  duties,  he  hurried  off  to  find  some  one 
to  perform  that  function,  while  we  all  sat  and 
giggled. 


In  the  spring  of  1855,  with  eight  or  ten  dollars  in 
my  pocket  which  Father  had  advanced  me,  I  made 
my  first  visit  to  New  York  by  steamer  from  Cats- 
kill,  on  my  way  to  New  Jersey  in  quest  of  a  position 
as  school-teacher.  Three  of  our  neighborhood  boys 
were  then  teaching  in  or  near  Plainfield,  and  I 
sought  them  out,  having  my  first  ride  on  the  cars 
on  that  trip  from  Jersey  City.  As  I  sat  there  in  my 
seat  waiting  for  the  train  to  start,  I  remember  I 
actually  wondered  if  the  starting  would  be  so  sud 
den  as  to  jerk  my  hat  off! 

I  was  too  late  to  find  a  vacancy  in  any  of  the 
schools  in  the  districts  I  visited.  On  one  occasion 
I  walked  from  Somerville  twelve  miles  to  a  village 
where  there  was  a  vacancy,  but  the  trustees,  after 
looking  me  over,  concluded  I  was  too  young  and 
inexperienced  for  their  large  school.  That  night 
the  occultation  of  Venus  by  the  moon  took  place. 
I  remember  gazing  at  it  long  and  long. 

On  my  return  in  May  I  stopped  in  New  York 
and  spent  a  day  prowling  about  the  second-hand 
book-stalls,  and  spent  so  much  of  my  money  for 
books  that  I  had  only  enough  left  to  carry  me  to 

100 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

Griffin's  Corners,  twelve  miles  from  KomevI  boug+it 
Locke's  "Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding/* 
Dr.  Johnson's  works,  Saint-Pierre^  ""5f;tidi^s  of 
Nature,"  and  Dick's  works  and  others.  Dick  was 
a  Scottish  philosopher  whose  two  big  fat  volumes 
held  something  that  caught  my  mind  as  I  dipped 
into  them.  But  I  got  little  from  him  and  soon  laid 
him  aside.  On  this  and  other  trips  to  New  York 
I  was  always  drawn  by  the  second-hand  book 
stalls.  How  I  hovered  about  them,  how  good  the 
books  looked,  how  I  wanted  them  all !  To  this  day, 
when  I  am  passing  them,  the  spirit  of  those  days 
lays  its  hand  upon  me,  and  I  have  to  pause  a 
few  moments  and,  half -dreaming,  half -longing,  run 
over  the  titles.  Nearly  all  my  copies  of  the  English 
classics  I  have  picked  up  at  these  curbstone  stalls. 
How  much  more  they  mean  to  me  than  new  books 
of  later  years !  Here,  for  instance,  are  two  volumes 
of  Dr.  Johnson's  works  in  good  leather  binding, 
library  style,  which  I  have  carried  with  me  from 
one  place  to  another  for  over  fifty  years,  and  which 
in  my  youth  I  read  and  reread,  and  the  style  of 
which  I  tried  to  imitate  before  I  was  twenty.  When 
I  dip  into  "The  Rambler"  and  "The  Idler"  now 
how  dry  and  stilted  and  artificial  their  balanced 
sentences  seem!  yet  I  treasure  them  for  what  they 
once  were  to  me.  In  my  first  essay  in  the  "Atlan 
tic,"  forty-six  years  ago  [in  I860],  I  said  that 

101 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Johnson's  periods  acted  like  a  lever  of  the  third 
kind,  and  that  the  power  applied  always  exceeded 
the, weight  raised;  and  this  comparison  seems  to 
hit  the  mark  very  well.  I  did  not  read  Boswell's 
Life  of  him  till  much  later.  In  his  conversation 
Johnson  got  the  fulcrum  in  the  right  place. 

I  reached  home  on  the  twentieth  of  May  with  an 
empty  pocket  and  an  empty  stomach,  but  with  a 
bagful  of  books.  I  remember  the  day  because  the 
grass  was  green,  but  the  air  was  full  of  those  great 
"goose-feather"  flakes  of  snow  which  sometimes 
fall  in  late  May. 

I  stayed  home  that  summer  of  '55  and  worked  on 
the  farm,  and  pored  over  my  books  when  I  had 
a  chance.  I  must  have  found  Locke's  "Essay" 
pretty  tough  reading,  but  I  remember  buckling  to 
it,  getting  right  down  on  "all  fours,"  as  one  has  to, 
to  follow  Locke. 

I  think  it  was  that  summer  that  I  read  my  first 
novel,  "Charlotte  Temple,"  and  was  fairly  intoxi 
cated  with  it.  It  let  loose  a  flood  of  emotion  in  me. 
I  remember  finishing  it  one  morning  and  then 
going  out  to  work  in  the  hay-field,  and  how  the 
homely  and  familiar  scenes  fairly  revolted  me.  I 
dare  say  the  story  took  away  my  taste  for  Locke 
and  Johnson  for  a  while. 

In  early  September  I  again  turned  my  face 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

Jersey  ward  in  quest  of  a  school,  but  stopped  on 
my  way  in  Olive  to  visit  friends  in  Tongore.  The 
school  there,  since  I  had  left  it,  had  fared  badly. 
One  of  the  teachers  the  boys  had  turned  out  of 
doors,  and  the  others  had  "failed  to  give  satisfac 
tion";  so  I  was  urged  to  take  the  school  again. 
The  trustees  offered  to  double  my  wages — twenty- 
two  dollars  a  month.  After  some  hesitation  I  gave 
up  the  Jersey  scheme  and  accepted  the  trustees' 
offer. 

It  was  during  that  second  term  of  teaching  at 
Tongore  that  I  first  met  Ursula  North,  who  later 
became  my  wife.  Her  uncle  was  one  of  the  trustees 
of  the  school,  and  I  presume  it  was  this  connec 
tion  that  brought  her  to  the  place  and  led  to  our 
meeting. 

If  I  had  gone  on  to  Jersey  in  that  fall  of  '55,  my 
life  might  have  been  very  different  in  many  ways. 
I  might  have  married  some  other  girl,  might  have 
had  a  large  family  of  children,  and  the  whole  course 
of  my  life  might  have  been  greatly  changed.  It 
frightens  me  now  to  think  that  I  might  have  missed 
the  Washington  life,  and  Whitman,  .  .  .  and  much 
else  that  has  counted  for  so  much  with  me.  What 
I  might  have  gained  is,  in  the  scale,  like  imponder 
able  air. 

I  read  my  Johnson  and  Locke  that  winter  and 
103 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

tried  to  write  a  little  in  the  Johnsonese  buckram 
style.  The  young  man  to-day,  under  the  same  con 
ditions,  would  probably  spend  his  evenings  reading 
novels  or  the  magazines.  I  spent  mine  poring  over 
"The  Rambler." 

In  April  I  closed  the  school  and  went  home, 
again  taking  a  young  fellow  with  me.  I  was  then 
practically  engaged  to  Ursula  North,  and  I  wrote 
her  a  poem  on  reaching  home.  About  the  middle  of 
April  I  left  home  for  Cooperstown  Seminary.  I  rode 
to  Moresville  with  Jim  Bouton,  and  as  the  road 
between  there  and  Stamford  was  so  blocked  with 
snowdrifts  that  the  stage  could  not  run,  I  was  com 
pelled  to  walk  the  eight  miles,  leaving  my  trunk 
behind.  From  Stamford  I  reached  Cooperstown 
after  an  all-night  ride  by  stage. 

My  summer  at  Cooperstown  was  an  enjoyable 
and  a  profitable  one.  I  studied  Latin,  French,  Eng 
lish  literature,  algebra,  and  geometry.  If  I  remem 
ber  correctly,  I  stood  first  in  composition  over  the 
whole  school.  I  joined  the  Websterian  Society  and 
frequently  debated,  and  was  one  of  the  three  or 
four  orators  chosen  by  the  school  to  "orate"  in 
a  grove  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  on  the  Fourth 
of  July.  I  held  forth  in  the  true  spread-eagle 
style. 

I  entered  into  the  sports  of  the  school,  ball- 
104 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

playing  and  rowing  on  the  lake,  with  the  zest  of 
youth. 

One  significant  thing  I  remember:  I  was  always 
on  the  lookout  for  books  of  essays.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  I  took  my  first  bite  into  Emerson,  and  it 
was  like  tasting  a  green  apple  —  not  that  he  was 
unripe,  but  I  was  n't  ripe  for  him.  But  a  year 
later  I  tasted  him  again,  and  said,  "Why,  this 
tastes  good";  and  took  a  bigger  bite;  then  soon 
devoured  everything  of  his  I  could  find. 

I  say  I  was  early  on  the  lookout  for  books  of 
essays,  and  I  wanted  the  essay  to  begin,  not  in  a 
casual  way  by  some  remark  in  the  first  person,  but 
by  the  annunciation  of  some  general  truth,  as 
most  of  Dr.  Johnson's  did.  I  think  I  bought  Dick's 
works  on  the  strength  of  his  opening  sentence  — 
"  Man  is  a  compound  being." 

As  one's  mind  develops,  how  many  changes  in 
taste  he  passes  through !  About  the  time  of  which 
I  am  now  writing,  Pope  was  my  favorite  poet.  His 
wit  and  common  sense  appealed  to  me.  Young's 
"Night  Thoughts"  also  struck  me  as  very  grand. 
Whipple  seemed  to  me  a  much  greater  writer  than 
Emerson.  Shakespeare  I  did  not  come  to  appreci 
ate  till  years  later,  and  Chaucer  and  Spenser  I  have 
never  learned  to  care  for. 

I  am  sure  the  growth  of  my  literary  taste  has 
been  along  the  right  lines  —  from  the  formal  and 

105 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  complex,  to  the  simple  and  direct.  Now,  the 
less  the  page  seems  written,  that  is,  the  more  natu 
ral  and  instinctive  it  is,  other  things  being  equal, 
the  more  it  pleases  me.  I  would  have  the  author 
take  no  thought  of  his  style, as  such;  yet  if  his  sen 
tences  are  clothed  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  so  much 
the  better.  Unconscious  beauty  that  flows  inev 
itably  and  spontaneously  out  of  the  subject,  or  out 
of  the  writer's  mind,  how  it  takes  us! 

My  own  first  attempts  at  writing  were,  of  course, 
crude  enough.  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  put  aside 
all  affectation  and  make-believe,  if  I  have  ever 
quite  succeeded  in  doing  it,,  and  get  down  to  what  I 
really  saw  and  felt.  But  I  think  now  I  can  tell  dead 
wood  in  my  writing  when  I  see  it  —  tell  when  I 
fumble  in  my  mind,  or  when  my  sentences  glance 
off  and  fail  to  reach  the  quick. 

[In  August,  1902,  Mr.  Burroughs  wrote  me  of  a  visit 
to  Cooperstown,  after  all  these  years:  "I  found  Coopers- 
town  not  much  changed.  The  lake  and  the  hills  were, 
of  course,  the  same  as  I  had  known  them  forty-six  years 
ago,  and  the  main  street  seemed  but  little  altered.  Of 
the  old  seminary  only  the  foundations  were  standing, 
and  the  trees  had  so  grown  about  it  that  I  hardly  knew 
the  place.  I  again  dipped  my  oar  in  the  lake,  again 
stood  beside  Cooper's  grave,  and  threaded  some  of  the 
streets  I  had  known  so  well.  I  wished  I  could  have  been 
alone  there.  ...  I  wanted  to  muse  and  dream,  and  invoke 
the  spirit  of  other  days,  but  the  spirits  would  not  rise 

106 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

in  the  presence  of  strangers.  I  could  not  quite  get  a, 
glimpse  of  the  world  as  it  appeared  to  me  in  those  callow 
days.  It  was  here  that  I  saw  my  first  live  author  (spoken 
of  in  my  'Egotistical  Chapter')  and  first  dipped  into 
Emerson." 

After  leaving  the  Seminary  at  Cooperstown  in  July 
of  1856,  the  young  student  worked  on  the  home  farm 
in  the  Catskills  until  fall,  when  he  began  teaching  school 
at  Buffalo  Grove,  Illinois,  where  he  taught  until  the  fol 
lowing  spring,  returning  East  to  marry,  as  he  says,  "the 
girl  I  left  behind  me." 

He  then  taught  in  various  schools  in  New  York  and 
New  Jersey,  until  the  fall  of  1863.  As  a  rule,  in  the  sum 
mer  he  worked  on  the  home  farm. 

During  this  period  he  was  reading  much,  and  trying 
his  hand  at  writing.  There  was  a  short  intermission  in 
his  teaching,  when  he  invested  his  earnings  in  a  patent 
buckle,  and  for  a  brief  period  he  had  dreams  of  wealth. 
But  the  buckle  project  failed,  the  dreams  vanished,  and 
he  began  to  read  medicine,  and  resumed  his  teaching. 

From  1859  to  1862  he  was  writing  much,  on  philosophi 
cal  subjects  mainly.  It  was  in  1863  that  he  first  became 
interested  in  the  birds.  —  C.  B.] 

Ever  since  the  time  when  in  my  boyhood  I  saw 
the  strange  bird  in  the  woods  of  which  I  have  told 
you,  the  thought  had  frequently  occurred  to  me,  "I 
shall  know  the  birds  some  day."  But  nothing  came 
of  the  thought  and  wish  till  the  spring  of  '63,  when 
I  was  teaching  school  near  West  Point.  In  the 
library  of  the  Military  Academy,  which  I  frequently 

107 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

visited  of  a  Saturday,  I  chanced  upon  the  works  of 
Audubon.  I  took  fire  at  once.  It  was  like  bringing 
together  fire  and  powder !  I  was  ripe  for  the  adven 
ture;  I  had  leisure,  I  was  in  a  good  bird  country, 
and  I  had  Audubon  to  stimulate  me,  as  well  as  a 
collection  of  mounted  birds  belonging  to  the  Acad 
emy  for  reference.  How  eagerly  and  joyously  I 
took  up  the  study!  It  fitted  in  so  well  with  my 
country  tastes  and  breeding;  it  turned  my  enthusi 
asm  as  a  sportsman  into  a  new  channel;  it  gave  to 
my  walks  a  new  delight;  it  made  me  look  upon 
every  grove  and  wood  as  a  new  storehouse  of  pos 
sible  treasures.  I  could  go  fishing  or  camping  or 
picknicking  now  with  my  resources  for  enjoyment 
doubled.  That  first  hooded  warbler  that  I  discov 
ered  and  identified  in  a  near-by  bushy  field  one 
Sunday  morning  —  shall  I  ever  forget  the  thrill  of 
delight  it  gave  me?  And  when  in  August  I  went 
with  three  friends  into  the  Adirondacks,  no  day  or 
place  or  detention  came  amiss  to  me;  new  birds  were 
calling  and  flitting  on  every  hand;  a  new  world  was 
opened  to  me  in  the  midst  of  the  old. 

At  once  I  was  moved  to  write  about  the  birds, 
and  I  began  my  first  paper,  "The  Return  of  the 
Birds,"  that  fall,  and  finished  it  in  Washington, 
whither  I  went  in  October,  and  where  I  lived  for 
ten  years.  Writing  about  the  birds  and  always 
treating  them  in  connection  with  the  season  and 

108 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

their  environment,  was,  while  I  was  a  government 
clerk,  a  kind  of  vacation.  It  enabled  me  to  live  over 
again  my  days  amid  the  sweet  rural  things  and 
influences.  The  paper  just  referred  to  is,  as  you 
may  see,  mainly  written  out  of  my  memories  as 
a  farm  boy.  The  enthusiasm  which  Audubon  had 
begotten  in  me  quickened  and  gave  value  to  all  my 
youthful  experiences  and  observations  of  the  birds. 

[This  brings  us  to  the  time  when  our  subject  is  fairly 
launched  on  early  manhood.  He  has  regular  employ 
ment  —  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of  the  Comptroller  of 
the  Currency,  which,  if  not  especially  congenial  in  itself, 
affords  him  leisure  to  do  the  things  he  most  wishes  to 
do.  He  is  even  now  growing  in  strength  and  efficiency 
as  an  essayist.  —  C.  B.] 

SELF-ANALYSIS 

March,  1906 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  — 

You  once  asked  me  how,  considering  my  ante 
cedents  and  youthful  environment,  I  accounted  for 
myself;  what  sent  me  to  Nature,  and  to  writing 
about  her,  and  to  literature  generally.  I  wish  I 
could  answer  you  satisfactorily,  but  I  fear  I  cannot. 
I  do  not  know,  myself;  I  can  only  guess  at  it. 

I  have  always  looked  upon  myself  as  a  kind  of 
sport;  I  came  out  of  the  air  quite  as  much  as  out  of 
my  family.  All  my  weaknesses  and  insufficiencies 
—  and  there  are  a  lot  of  them  —  are  inherited, 

109 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

but  of  my  intellectual  qualities,  there  is  not  much 
trace  in  my  immediate  forbears.  No  scholars  or 
thinkers  or  lovers  of  books,  or  men  of  intellectual 
pursuits  for  several  generations  back  of  me  —  all 
obscure  farmers  or  laborers  in  humble  fields,  rather 
grave,  religiously  inclined  men,  I  gather,  sober, 
industrious,  good  citizens,  good  neighbors,  correct 
livers,  but  with  no  very  shining  qualities.  My 
four  brothers  were  of  this  stamp  —  home-bodies, 
rather  timid,  non-aggressive  men,  somewhat  be 
low  the  average  in  those  qualities  and  powers  that 
insure  worldly  success  —  the  kind  of  men  that  are 
so  often  crowded  to  the  wall.  I  can  see  myself  in 
some  of  them,  especially  in  Hiram,  who  had  day 
dreams,  who  was  always  going  West,  but  never 
went;  who  always  wanted  some  plaything  —  fancy 
sheep  or  pigs  or  poultry;  who  was  a  great  lover  of 
bees  and  always  kept  them;  who  was  curious  about 
strange  lands,  but  who  lost  heart  and  hope  as  soon 
as  he  got  beyond  the  sight  of  his  native  hills;  and 
who  usually  got  cheated  in  every  bargain  he  made. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  I  see  myself  in  him  that  Hi 
ram  always  seemed  nearer  to  me  than  any  of  the 
rest.  I  have  at  times  his  vagueness,  his  indefinite- 
ness,  his  irresolution,  and  his  want  of  spirit  when 
imposed  upon. 

Poor  Hiram!   One  fall  in  his  simplicity  he  took 
his  fancy  Cotswold  sheep  to  the  State  Fair  at  Syra- 

110 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

cuse,  never  dreaming  but  that  a  farmer  entirely 
outside  of  all  the  rings  and  cliques,  and  quite  un 
known,  could  get  the  prize  if  his  stock  was  the  best. 
I  can  see  him  now,  hanging  about  the  sheep-pens, 
homesick,  insignificant,  unnoticed,  living  on  cake 
and  pie,  and  wondering  why  a  prize  label  was 
not  put  upon  his  sheep.  Poor  Hiram!  Well,  he 
marched  up  the  hill  with  his  sheep,  and  then  he 
marched  down  again,  a  sadder  and,  I  hope,  a  wiser 
man. 

Once  he  ordered  a  fancy  rifle,  costing  upwards  of 
a  hundred  dollars,  of  a  gunsmith  in  Utica.  When 
the  rifle  came,  it  did  not  suit  him,  was  not  accord 
ing  to  specifications;  so  he  sent  it  back.  Not  long 
after  that  the  man  failed  and  no  rifle  came,  and  the 
money  was  not  returned.  Then  Hiram  concluded 
to  make  a  journey  out  there.  I  was  at  home  at  the 
time,  and  can  see  him  yet  as  he  started  off  along 
the  road  that  June  day,  off  for  Utica  on  foot.  Again 
he  marched  up  the  hill,  and  then  marched  down, 
and  no  rifle  or  money  ever  came. 

For  years  he  had  the  Western  fever,  and  kept  his 
valise  under  his  bed  packed  ready  for  the  trip. 
Once  he  actually  started  and  got  as  far  as  White 
Pigeon,  Michigan.  There  his  courage  gave  out,  and 
he  came  back.  Still  he  kept  his  valise  packed,  but 
the  end  of  his  life's  journey  came  before  he  was 
ready  to  go  West  again. 

Ill 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Hiram,  as  you  know,  came  to  live  with  me  at 
Slabsides  during  the  last  years  of  his  life.  He  had 
made  a  failure  of  it  on  the  old  farm,  after  I  had 
helped  him  purchase  it;  nearly  everything  had 
gone  wrong,  indoors  and  out;  and  he  was  compelled 
to  give  it  up.  So  he  brought  his  forty  or  more  skips 
of  bees  to  West  Park  and  lived  with  me,  devoting 
himself,  not  very  successfully,  to  bee-culture.  He 
loved  to  "fuss"  with  bees.  I  think  the  money  he 
got  for  his  honey  looked  a  little  more  precious  to 
him  than  other  money,  just  as  the  silver  quarters 
I  used  to  get  when  a  boy  for  the  maple  sugar  I 
made  had  a  charm  and  a  value  no  quarters  have 
ever  had  in  my  eyes  since. 

That  thing  in  Hiram  that  was  so  appealed  to  by 
his  bee-culture,  and  by  any  fancy  strain  of  sheep 
or  poultry,  is  strong  in  me,  too,  and  has  played  an 
important  part  in  my  life.  If  I  had  not  taken  it 
out  in  running  after  wild  nature  and  writing  about 
it  I  should  probably  have  been  a  bee-man,  or  a 
fancy-stock  farmer.  As  it  is,  I  have  always  been 
a  bee-lover,  and  have  usually  kept  several  swarms. 
Ordinary  farming  is  prosy  and  tiresome  compared 
with  bee-farming.  Combined  with  poultry-raising, 
it  always  had  special  attractions  for  me.  When  I 
was  a  farm  boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  one  of 
our  neighbors  had  a  breed  of  chickens  with  large 
topknots  that  filled  my  eye  completely.  My  bro- 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

ther  and  I  used  to  hang  around  the  Chase  henyard 
for  hours,  admiring  and  longing  for  those  chickens. 
The  impression  those  fowls  made  upon  me  seems 
as  vivid  to-day  as  it  was  when  first  made.  The 
topknot  was  the  extra  touch  —  the  touch  of 
poetry  that  I  have  always  looked  for  in  things, 
and  that  Hiram,  in  his  way,  craved  and  sought  for, 
too. 

There  was  something,  too,  in  my  maternal 
grandfather  that  probably  foreshadowed  the  na 
ture-lover  and  nature-writer.  In  him  it  took  the 
form  of  a  love  of  angling,  arid  a  love  for  the  Bible. 
He  went  from  the  Book  to  the  stream,  and  from 
the  stream  to  the  Book,  with  great  regularity.  I  do 
not  remember  that  he  ever  read  the  newspapers,  or 
any  other  books  than  the  Bible  and  the  hymn-book. 
When  he  was  over  eighty  years  old  he  would  woo 
the  trout-streams  with  great  success,  and  between 
times  would  pore  over  the  Book  till  his  eyes  were 
dim.  I  do  not  think  he  ever  joined  the  church,  or 
ever  made  an  open  profession  of  religion,  as  was 
the  wont  in  those  days;  but  he  had  the  religious 
nature  which  he  nursed  upon  the  Bible.  When  a 
mere  boy,  as  I  have  before  told  you,  he  was  a  sol 
dier  under  Washington,  and  when  the  War  of  1812 
broke  out,  and  one  of  his  sons  was  drafted,  he  was 
accepted  and  went  in  his  stead.  The  half-wild, 
adventurous  life  of  the  soldier  suited  him  better 

113 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

than  the  humdrum  of  the  farm.  From  him,  as  I 
have  said,  I  get  the  dash  of  Celtic  blood  in  my 
veins  —  that  almost  feminine  sensibility  and  tinge 
of  melancholy  that,  I  think,  shows  in  all  my  books. 
That  emotional  Celt,  ineffectual  in  some  ways, 
full  of  longings  and  impossible  dreams,  of  quick 
and  noisy  anger,  temporizing,  revolutionary,  mys 
tical,  bold  in  words,  timid  in  action  —  surely  that 
man  is  in  me,  and  surely  he  comes  from  my  revo 
lutionary  ancestor,  Grandfather  Kelly. 

I  think  of  the  Burroughs  branch  of  my  ancestry 
as  rather  retiring,  peace-loving,  solitude-loving 
men  —  men  not  strongly  sketched  in  on  the  can 
vas  of  life,  not  self-assertive,  never  roistering  or 
uproarious  —  law-abiding,  and  church-going.  I 
gather  this  impression  from  many  sources,  and 
think  it  is  a  correct  one. 

Oh,  the  old  farm  days!  how  the  fragrance  of 
them  still  lingers  in  my  heart!  the  spring  with  its 
sugar-making  and  the  general  awakening  about  the 
farm,  the  returning  birds,  and  the  full,  lucid  trout- 
streams;  the  summer  with  its  wild  berries,  its  hay 
ing,  its  cool,  fragrant  woods;  the  fall  with  its  nuts} 
its  game,  its  apple-gathering,  its  holidays;  the 
winter  with  its  school,  its  sport  on  ice  and  snow,  its 
apple-bins  in  the  cellar,  its  long  nights  by  the  fire 
side,  its  voice  of  fox-hounds  on  the  mountains,  its 

114 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

sound  of  flails  in  the  barn  —  how  much  I  still 
dream  about  these  things! 

But  I  am  slow  in  keeping  my  promise  to  try  to 
account  for  myself.  Yet  all  these  things  are  a  part 
of  my  antecedents;  they  entered  into  my  very 
blood  —  father  and  mother  and  brothers  and  sis 
ters,  and  the  homely  life  of  the  farm,  all  entered 
into  and  became  a  part  of  that  which  I  am. 

I  am  certain,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  that  I  de 
rived  more  from  my  mother  than  from  my  father. 
I  have  more  of  her  disposition  —  her  yearning, 
brooding  nature,  her  subdued  and  neutral  tones,  her 
curiosity,  her  love  of  animals,  and  of  wild  nature 
generally.  Father  was  neither  a  hunter  nor  a  fish 
erman,  and,  I  think,  was  rarely  conscious  of  the 
beauty  of  nature  around  him.  The  texture  of  his 
nature  was  much  less  fine  than  that  of  Mother's, 
and  he  was  a  much  easier  problem  to  read;  he  was 
as  transparent  as  glass.  Mother  had  more  of  the 
stuff  of  poetry  in  her  soul,  and  a  deeper,  if  more 
obscure,  background  to  her  nature.  That  which 
makes  a  man  a  hunter  or  a  fisherman  simply  sent 
her  forth  in  quest  of  wild  berries.  What  a  berry- 
picker  she  was!  How  she  would  work  to  get  the 
churning  out  of  the  way  so  she  could  go  out  to  the 
berry  lot!  It  seemed  to  heal  and  refresh  her  to  go 
forth  in  the  hill  meadows  for  strawberries,  or  in  the 
old  bushy  bark-peelings  for  raspberries.  The  last 

115 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

work  she  did  in  the  world  was  to  gather  a  pail  of 
blackberries  as  she  returned  one  September  after 
noon  from  a  visit  to  my  sister's,  less  than  a  mile 
away. 

I  am  as  fond  of  going  forth  for  berries  as  my 
mother  was,  even  to  this  day.  Every  June  I  must 
still  make  one  or  two  excursions  to  distant  fields 
for  wild  strawberries,  or  along  the  borders  of  the 
woods  for  black  raspberries,  and  I  never  go  without 
thinking  of  Mother.  You  could  not  see  all  that  I 
bring  home  with  me  in  my  pail  on  such  occasions; 
if  you  could,  you  would  see  the  traces  of  daisies  and 
buttercups  and  bobolinks,  and  the  blue  skies,  with 
thoughts  of  Mother  and  the  Old  Home,  that  date 
from  my  youth.  I  usually  eat  some  of  the  berries 
in  bread  and  milk,  as  I  was  wont  to  do  in  the  old 
days,  and  am,  for  the  moment,  as  near  a  boy  again 
as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  be. 

No  doubt  my  life  as  a  farm  boy  has  had  much 
to  do  with  my  subsequent  love  of  nature,  and  my 
feeling  of  kinship  with  all  rural  things.  I  feel  at 
home  with  them;  they  are  bone  of  my  bone  and 
flesh  of  my  flesh.  It  seems  to  me  a  man  who  was 
not  born  and  reared  in  the  country  can  hardly  get 
Nature  into  his  blood,  and  establish  such  intimate 
and  affectionate  relations  with  her,  as  can  the  born 
countryman.  We  are  so  susceptible  and  so  plastic 
in  youth;  we  take  things  so  seriously;  they  enter 

116 


ONE    OF    MR.    BURROUGHS  S    FAVORITE    SEATS 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

into  and  color  and  feed  the  very  currents  of  our 
being.  As  a  child  I  think  I  must  have  been  more 
than  usually  fluid  and  impressionable,  and  that  my 
affiliations  with  open-air  life  and  objects  were  very 
hearty  and  thorough.  As  I  grow  old  I  am  experi 
encing  what,  I  suppose,  all  men  experience,  more 
or  less;  my  subsequent  days  slough  off,  or  fade 
away,  more  and  more,  leaving  only  the  days  of  my 
youth  as  a  real  and  lasting  possession. 

When  I  began,  in  my  twenty-fifth  or  twenty- 
sixth  year,  to  write  about  the  birds,  I  found  that 
I  had  only  to  unpack  the  memories  of  the  farm  boy 
within  me  to  get  at  the  main  things  about  the 
common  ones.  I  had  unconsciously  absorbed  the 
knowledge  that  gave  the  life  and  warmth  to  my 
page.  Take  that  farm  boy  out  of  my  books,  out  of 
all  the  pages  in  which  he  is  latent  as  well  as  visibly 
active,  and  you  have  robbed  them  of  something 
vital  and  fundamental,  you  have  taken  from  the 
soil  much  of  its  fertility.  At  least,  so  it  seems  to 
me,  though  in  this  business  of  self -analysis  I  know 
one  may  easily  go  far  astray.  It  is  probably  quite 
impossible  correctly  to  weigh  and  appraise  the 
many  and  complex  influences  and  elements  that 
have  entered  into  one's  life. 

When  I  look  back  to  that  twilight  of  early  youth, 
to  that  half-mythical  borderland  of  the  age  of  six 

117 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

or  seven  years,  or  even  earlier,  I  can  see  but  few 
things  that,  in  the  light  of  my  subsequent  life,  have 
much  significance.  One  is  the  impression  made  upon 
me  by  a  redbird  which  the  "hired  girl"  brought 
in  from  the  woodpile  one  day  with  a  pail  of  chips. 
She  had  found  the  bird  lying  dead  upon  the 
ground.  That  vivid  bit  of  color  in  the  form  of  a 
bird  has  never  faded  from  my  mind,  though  I  could 
not  have  been  more  than  three  or  four  years  old. 

Another  bird  incident,  equally  vivid,  I  have  re 
lated  in  "  Wake-Robin,"  in  the  chapter  called  "  The 
Invitation,"  —  the  vision  of  the  small  bluish  bird 
with  a  white  spot  on  its  wing,  one  Sunday  when  I 
was  six  or  seven  years  old,  while  roaming  with  my 
brothers  in  the  "  Deacon  woods"  near  home.  The 
memory  of  that  bird  stuck  to  me  as  a  glimpse  of  a 
world  of  birds  that  I  knew  not  of. 

Still  another  bird  incident  that  is  stamped  upon 
my  memory  must  have  occurred  about  the  same 
time.  Some  of  my  brothers  and  an  older  boy 
neighbor  and  I  were  walking  along  a  road  in  the 
woods  when  a  brown  bird  flew  down  from  a  bush 
upon  the  ground  in  front  of  us.  "A  brown 
thrasher,"  the  older  boy  said.  It  was  doubtless 
either  the  veery,  or  the  hermit  thrush,  and  this  was 
my  first  clear  view  of  it.  Thus  it  appears  that 
birds  stuck  to  me,  impressed  me  from  the  first. 
Very  early  in  my  life  the  coming  of  the  bluebird, 

118 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

the  phoebe,  the  song  sparrow,  and  the  robin,  in  the 
spring,  were  events  that  stirred  my  emotions,  and 
gave  a  new  color  to  the  day.  When  I  had  found 
a  bluebird's  nest  in  the  cavity  of  a  stump  or  a  tree, 
I  used  to  try  to  capture  the  mother  bird  by  ap 
proaching  silently  and  clapping  my  hand  over  the 
hole;  in  this  I  sometimes  succeeded,  though,  of 
course,  I  never  harmed  the  bird.  I  used  to  capture 
song  sparrows  in  a  similar  way,  by  clapping  my  hat 
over  the  nest  in  the  side  of  the  bank  along  the  road. 

I  can  see  that  I  was  early  drawn  to  other  forms 
of  wild  life,  for  I  distinctly  remember  when  a  small 
urchin  prying  into  the  private  affairs  of  the  "  peep 
ers"  in  the  marshes  in  early  spring,  sitting  still  a 
long  time  on  a  log  in  their  midst,  trying  to  spy  out 
and  catch  them  in  the  act  of  peeping.  And  this  I 
succeeded  in  doing,  discovering  one  piping  from 
the  top  of  a  bulrush,  to  which  he  clung  like  a  sailor 
to  a  mast;  I  finally  allayed  the  fears  of  one  I  had 
captured  till  he  sat  in  the  palm  of  my  hand  and 
piped  —  a  feat  I  have  never  been  able  to  repeat 
since. 

I  studied  the  ways  of  the  bumblebees  also,  and 
had  names  of  my  own  for  all  the  different  kinds. 
One  summer  I  made  it  a  point  to  collect  bumblebee 
honey,  and  I  must  have  gathered  a  couple  of 
pounds.  I  found  it  very  palatable,  though  the  combs 
were  often  infested  with  parasites.  The  small  red- 

119 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

banded  bumblebees  that  lived  in  large  colonies  in 
holes  in  the  ground  afforded  me  the  largest  yields. 
A  large  bee,  with  a  broad  light-yellow  band,  was 
the  ugliest  customer  to  deal  with.  It  was  a  fighter 
and  would  stick  to  its  enemy  like  grim  death,  fol 
lowing  me  across  the  meadow  and  often  getting  in 
my  hair,  and  a  few  times  up  my  trousers  leg,  where 
I  had  it  at  as  great  a  disadvantage  as  it  had  me. 
It  could  stab,  and  I  could  pinch,  and  one  blow 
followed  the  other  pretty  rapidly. 

As  a  child  I  was  always  looked  upon  and  spoken 
of  as  an  "  odd  one"  in  the  family,  even  by  my  par 
ents.  Strangers,  and  relatives  from  a  distance,  vis 
iting  at  the  house,  would  say,  after  looking  us  all 
over,  "That  is  not  your  boy,"  referring  to  me, 
"  who  is  he?  "  And  I  am  sure  I  used  to  look  the  em 
barrassment  I  felt  at  not  being  as  the  others  were. 
I  did  not  want  to  be  set  apart  from  them  or  re 
garded  as  an  outsider.  As  this  was  before  the  days 
of  photography,  there  are  no  pictures  of  us  as  chil 
dren,  so  I  can  form  no  opinion  of  how  I  differed  in 
my  looks  from  the  others.  I  remember  hearing  my 
parents  say  that  I  showed  more  of  the  Kelly  — 
Mother's  family. 

I  early  "  took  to  larnin',"  as  Father  used  to  say, 
differing  from  my  brothers  and  sisters  in  this  re 
spect.  I  quickly  and  easily  distanced  them  all  in 

120 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

the  ordinary  studies.  I  had  gone  through  Dayball's 
Arithmetic  while  two  of  my  older  brothers  were  yet 
in  addition.  "  Larnin' "  came  very  hard  to  all  of 
them  except  to  Hiram  and  me,  and  Hiram  did  not 
have  an  easy  time  of  it,  though  he  got  through 
his  Dayball,  and  studied  Greenleaf  s  Grammar. 

There  was  a  library  of  a  couple  of  dozen  of  vol 
umes  in  the  district,  and  I  used  to  take  home  books 
from  it.  They  were  usually  books  of  travel  or  of 
adventure.  I  remember  one,  especially,  a  great 
favorite,  "Murphy,  the  Indian  Killer."  I  must 
have  read  this  book  several  times.  Novels,  or 
nature  books,  or  natural-history  books,  were  un 
known  in  that  library.  I  remember  the  "  Life  of 
Washington,"  and  I  am  quite  certain  that  it  was 
a  passage  in  this  book  that  made  a  lasting  impres 
sion  upon  me  when  I  was  not  more  than  six  or 
seven  years  old.  I  remember  the  impression, 
though  I  do  not  recall  the  substance  of  the  passage. 
The  incident  occurred  one  Sunday  in  summer  when 
Hiram  and  a  cousin  of  ours  and  I  were  playing 
through  the  house,  I  carrying  this  book  in  my 
hand.  From  time  to  time  I  would  stop  and  read 
this  passage  aloud,  and  I  can  remember,  as  if  it 
were  but  yesterday,  that  I  was  so  moved  by  it,  so 
swept  away  by  its  eloquence,  that,  for  a  moment, 
I  was  utterly  oblivious  to  everything  around  me. 
I  was  lifted  out  of  myself,  caught  up  in  a  cloud  of 

121 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

feeling,  and  wafted  I  know  not  whither.  My  com 
panions,  being  much  older  than  I  was,  regarded  not 
my  reading. 

These  exalted  emotional  states,  similar  to  that 
just  described,  used  occasionally  to  come  to  me 
under  other  conditions  about  this  time,  or  later. 
I  recall  one  such,  one  summer  morning  when  I  was 
walking  on  the  top  of  a  stone  wall  that  ran  across 
the  summit  of  one  of  those  broad-backed  hills 
which  you  yourself  know.  I  had  in  my  hand  a  bit 
of  a  root  of  a  tree  that  was  shaped  much  like  a  pis 
tol.  As  I  walked  along  the  toppling  stones,  I  flour 
ished  this,  and  called  and  shouted  and  exulted  and 
let  my  enthusiasm  have  free  swing.  It  was  a  mo 
ment  of  supreme  happiness.  I  was  literally  intoxi 
cated;  with  what  I  do  not  know.  I  only  remember 
that  life  seemed  amazingly  beautiful  —  I  was  on 
the  crest  of  some  curious  wave  of  emotion,  and  my 
soul  sparkled  and  flashed  in  the  sunlight.  I  have 
haunted  that  old  stone  wall  many  times  since  that 
day,  but  I  have  never  been  able  again  to  experience 
that  thrill  of  joy  and  triumph.  The  cup  of  life 
does  not  spontaneously  bead  and  sparkle  in  this 
way  except  in  youth,  and  probably  with  many  peo 
ple  it  does  not  even  then.  But  I  know  from  what 
you  have  told  me  that  you  have  had  the  experience. 
When  one  is  trying  to  cipher  out  his  past,  and  sep 
arate  the  factors  that  have  played  an  important 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

part  in  his  life,  such  incidents,  slight  though  they 
are,  are  significant. 

The  day-dreams  I  used  to  indulge  in  when 
twelve  or  thirteen,  while  at  work  about  the  farm, 
boiling  sap  in  the  spring  woods,  driving  the  cows 
to  pasture,  or  hoeing  corn,  —  dreams  of  great 
wealth  and  splendor,  of  dress  and  equipage,  — 
were  also  significant,  but  not  prophetic.  Probably 
what  started  these  golden  dreams  was  an  itinerant 
quack  phrenologist  who  passed  the  night  at  our 
house  when  I  was  a  lad  of  eight  or  nine.  He  ex 
amined  the  heads  of  all  of  us;  when  he  struck  mine, 
he  grew  enthusiastic.  "  This  is  the  head  for  you," 
he  said;  "  this  boy  is  going  to  be  rich,  very  rich"; 
and  much  more  to  that  effect.  Riches  was  the  one 
thing  that  appealed  to  country  people  in  those 
times;  it  was  what  all  were  after,  and  what  few 
had.  Hence  the  confident  prophesy  of  the  old 
quack  made  an  impression,  and  when  I  began  to 
indulge  in  day-dreams  I  was,  no  doubt,  influenced 
by  it.  But,  as  you  know,  it  did  not  come  true,  ex 
cept  in  a  very  limited  sense.  Instead  of  returning 
to  the  Old  Home  in  a  fine  equipage,  and  shining 
with  gold,  —  the  observed  of  all  observers,  and  the 
envy  of  all  enviers,  —  as  I  had  dreamed,  and  as 
had  been  foretold,  I  came  back  heavy-hearted,  not 
indeed  poor,  but  far  from  rich,  walked  up  from  the 
station  through  the  mud  and  snow  unnoticed,  and 

123 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

took  upon  myself  the  debts  against  the  old  farm, 
and  so  provided  that  it  be  kept  in  the  family.  It 
was  not  an  impressive  home-coming;  it  was  to 
assume  burdens  rather  than  to  receive  congratula 
tions;  it  was  to  bow  my  head  rather  than  to  lift  it 
up.  Out  of  the  golden  dreams  of  youth  had  come 
cares  and  responsibilities.  But  doubtless  it  was 
best  so.  The  love  that  brought  me  back  to  the 
old  home  year  after  year,  that  made  me  willing  to 
serve  my  family,  and  that  invested  my  native  hills 
with  such  a  charm,  was  the  best  kind  of  riches 
after  all. 

As  a  youth  I  never  went  to  Sunday-school,  and 
I  was  not  often  seen  inside  the  church.  My  Sun- 
days  were  spent  rather  roaming  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  or  climbing  to  "  Old  Clump,"  or,  in  summer, 
following  the  streams  and  swimming  in  the  pools. 
Occasionally  I  went  fishing,  though  this  was  to 
incur  parental  displeasure  —  unless  I  brought 
home  some  fine  trout,  in  which  case  the  displeasure 
was  much  tempered.  I  think  this  Sunday-school 
in  the  woods  and  fields  was,  in  my  case,  best.  It 
has  always  seemed,  and  still  seems,  as  if  I  could  be 
a  little  more  intimate  with  Nature  on  Sunday  than 
on  a  week-day;  our  relations  were  and  are  more 
ideal,  a  different  spirit  is  abroad,  the  spirit  of  holi 
day  and  not  of  work,  and  I  could  in  youth,  and 

124 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

can  now,  abandon  myself  to  the  wild  life  about  me 
more  fully  and  more  joyously  on  that  day  than  on 
any  other. 

The  memory  of  my  youthful  Sundays  is  fra 
grant  with  wintergreens,  black  birch,  and  crinkle- 
root,  to  say  nothing  of  the  harvest  apples  that  grew 
in  our  neighbor's  orchard;  and  the  memory  of  my 
Sundays  in  later  years  is  fragrant  with  arbutus, 
and  the  showy  orchid,  and  wild  strawberries,  and 
touched  with  the  sanctity  of  woodland  walks  and 
hilltops.  What  day  can  compare  with  a  Sunday 
to  go  to  the  waterfalls,  or  to  "  Piney  Ridge,"  or  to 
"Columbine  Ledge,"  or  to  stroll  along  "Snake 
Lane"?  What  sweet  peace  and  repose  is  over  all! 
The  snakes  in  Snake  Lane  are  as  free  from  venom 
as  are  grasshoppers,  and  the  grasshoppers  them 
selves  fiddle  and  dance  as  at  no  other  time.  Cher 
ish  your  Sundays.  I  think  you  will  read  a  little 
deeper  in  "Nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy"  on 
Sunday  than  on  Monday.  I  once  began  an  essay 
the  subject  of  which  was  Sunday,  but  never  fin 
ished  it.  I  must  send  you  the  fragment. 

But  I  have  not  yet  solved  my  equation  —  what 
sent  me  to  nature?  What  made  me  take  an  intel 
lectual  interest  in  outdoor  things?  The  precise 
value  of  the  x  is  hard  to  find.  My  reading,  no 
dtf-'bt,  had  much  to  do  with  it.  This  intellectual 

125 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

and  emotional  interest  in  nature  is  in  the  air  in  our 
time,  and  has  been  more  or  less  for  the  past  fifty 
years.  I  early  read  Wordsworth,  and  Emerson  and 
Tennyson  and  Whitman,  and  Saint-Pierre's  "  Stud 
ies  of  Nature,"  as  I  have  before  told  you.  But  the 
previous  question  is,  why  the  nature  poets  and 
nature  books  appealed  to  me.  One  cannot  corner 
this  unknown  quantity.  I  suppose  I  was  simply 
made  that  way  —  the  love  of  nature  was  born  in 
me.  I  suppose  Emerson  influenced  me  most,  be 
ginning  when  I  was  about  nineteen;  I  had  read 
Pope  and  Thomson  and  Young  and  parts  of  Shake 
speare  before  that,  but  they  did  not  kindle  this 
love  of  nature  in  me.  Emerson  did.  Though  he 
did  not  directly  treat  of  outdoor  themes,  yet  his 
spirit  seemed  to  blend  with  Nature,  and  to  re 
veal  the  ideal  and  spiritual  values  in  her  works. 
I  think  it  was  this,  or  something  like  it,  that  stim 
ulated  me  and  made  bird  and  tree  and  sky  and 
flower  full  of  a  new  interest.  It  is  not  nature  for  its 
own  sake  that  has  mainly  drawn  me;  had  it  been 
so,  I  should  have  turned  out  a  strict  man  of  sci 
ence;  but  nature  for  the  soul's  sake  —  the  inward 
world  of  ideals  and  emotions.  It  is  this  that  allies 
me  to  the  poets ;  while  it  is  my  interest  in  the  mere 
fact  that  allies  me  to  the  men  of  science. 

I  do  not  read  Emerson  much  now,  except  to  try 
to  get  myself  back  into  the  atmosphere  of  that 

126 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

foreworld  when  a  paradox,  or  a  startling  affirma 
tion,  dissolved  or  put  to  flight  a  vast  array  of 
commonplace  facts.  What  a  bold  front  he  did  put 
on  in  the  presence  of  the  tyrannies  of  life !  He  stim 
ulated  us  by  a  kind  of  heavenly  bragging  and 
saintly  flouting  of  humdrum  that  ceases  to  impress 
us  as  we  grow  old.  Do  we  outgrow  him?  —  or  do 
we  fall  away  from  him?  I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
Emerson  spoken  of  as  a  back-number,  and  I  should 
like  to  believe  that  the  young  men  of  to-day  find  in 
him  what  I  found  in  him  fifty  years  ago,  when  he 
seemed  to  whet  my  appetite  for  high  ideals  by 
referring  to  that  hunger  that  could  "  eat  the  solar 
system  like  gingercake."  But  I  suspect  they  do 
not.  The  world  is  too  much  with  us.  We  are  prone 
to  hitch  our  wagon  to  a  star  in  a  way,  or  in  a  spirit, 
that  does  not  sanctify  the  wagon,  but  debases  the 
star.  Emerson  is  perhaps  too  exceptional  to  take 
his  place  among  the  small  band  of  the  really  first- 
class  writers  of  the  world.  Shear  him  of  his  para 
doxes,  of  his  surprises,  of  his  sudden  inversions,  of 
his  taking  sallies  in  the  face  of  the  common  rea 
son,  and  appraise  him  for  his  real  mastery  over  the 
elements  of  life  and  of  the  mind,  as  we  do  Bacon, 
or  Shakespeare,  or  Carlyle,  and  he  will  be  found 
wanting.  And  yet,  let  me  quickly  add,  there  is 
something  more  precious  and  divine  about  him 
than  about  any  or  all  the  others.  He  prepares  the 

127 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

way  for  a  greater  than  he,  prepares  the  mind  to 
accept  the  new  man,  the  new  thought,  as  none 
other  does. 

But  how  slow  I  am  in  getting  at  my  point! 
Emerson  took  me  captive.  For  a  time  I  lived  and 
moved  and  had  my  intellectual  being  in  him.  I 
think  I  have  always  had  a  pretty  soft  shell,  so  to 
speak,  hardly  enough  lime  and  grit  in  it,  and  at 
times  I  am  aware  that  such  is  the  fact  to  this  day. 
Well,  Emerson  found  my  intellectual  shell  very 
plastic;  I  took  the  form  of  his  mould  at  once,  and 
could  not  get  away  from  him;  and,  what  is  more, 
did  not  want  to  get  away  from  him,  did  not  see  the 
need  of  getting  away  from  him.  Nature  herself 
seemed  to  speak  through  him.  An  intense  individu 
ality  that  possesses  the  quality  of  lovableness  is  apt 
to  impose  itself  upon  us  in  this  way.  It  was  under 
this  spell,  as  you  know, 'that  I  wrote  "Expression," 
of  which  I  have  told  you.  The  "Atlantic,"  by  the 
way,  had  from  the  first  number  been  a  sort  of  uni 
versity  to  me.  It  had  done  much  to  stimulate  and 
to  shape  my  literary  tastes  and  ambitions.  I  was 
so  eager  for  it  that  when  I  expected  it  in  the  mail 
I  used  to  run  on  my  way  to  the  post  office  for  it. 
So,  with  fear  and  trembling,  I  sent  that  essay  to  its 
editor.  Lowell  told  a  Harvard  student  who  was 
an  old  schoolmate  of  mine  that  when  he  read  the 
paper  he  thought  some  young  fellow  was  trying  to 

128 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

palm  off  an  early  essay  of  Emerson's  upon  him  as 
his  own,  and  that  he  looked  through  the  "Dial" 
and  other  publications  in  the  expectation  of  find 
ing  it.  Not  succeeding  in  doing  so,  he  concluded 
the  young  man  had  written  it  himself.  It  was 
published  in  November,  1860,  and  as  the  contribu 
tors'  names  were  not  given  at  that  time,  it  was 
ascribed  to  Emerson  by  the  newspaper  reviewers 
of  that  number.  It  went  into  Poole's  Index  as  by 
Emerson,  and  later,  Professor  Hill,1  of  Harvard, 
quoted  a  line  from  it  in  a  footnote  in  his  "Rhe 
toric,"  and  credited  it  to  Emerson.  So  I  had  de 
ceived  the  very  elect.  The  essay  had  some  merit, 
but  it  reeked  with  the  Emersonian  spirit  and  man 
ner.  When  I  came  to  view  it  through  the  perspec 
tive  of  print,  I  quickly  saw  that  this  kind  of  thing 
would  not  do  for  me.  I  must  get  on  ground  of 
my  own.  I  must  get  this  Emersonian  musk  out  of 
my  garments  at  all  hazards.  I  concluded  to  bury 
my  garments  in  the  earth,  as  it  were,  and  see  what 
my  native  soil  would  do  toward  drawing  it  out.  So 

1  Some  years  ago  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  let  Professor  Hill  know 
the  real  author  of  "Expression."  He  appeared  grateful,  though  some 
what  chagrined,  and  said  the  error  should  be  corrected  in  the  next 
edition.  Mr.  Burroughs  smiled  indulgently  when  he  learned  of  my 
zeal  in  the  matter:  "Emerson's  back  is  broad;  he  could  have  afforded 
to  continue  to  shoulder  my  early  blunders,"  he  said.  The  line  in  ques 
tion  reads:  "They  [proverbs]  give  us  pocket  editions  of  the  most 
voluminous  truths."  —  C.  B.] 

129 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

I  took  to  writing  on  all  manner  of  rural  themes  — 
sugar-making,  cows,  haying,  stcne  walls.  These, 
no  doubt,  helped  to  draw  out  the  rank  suggestion 
of  Emerson.  I  wrote  about  things  of  which  I 
knew,  and  was,  therefore,  bound  to  be  more  sincere 
with  myself  than  in  writing  upon  the  Emersonian 
themes.  When  a  man  tells  what  he  knows,  what 
he  has  seen  or  felt,  he  is  pretty  sure  to  be  himself. 
When  I  wrote  upon  more  purely  intellectual 
themes,  as  I  did  about  this  time  for  the  "Leader," 
the  Emersonian  influence  was  more  potent,  though 
less  so  than  in  the  first  "Atlantic"  essay. 

Any  man  progresses  in  the  formation  of  a  style 
of  his  own  in  proportion  as  he  gets  down  to  his  own 
real  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  ceases  to  echo  the 
thoughts  and  moods  of  another.  Only  thus  can  he 
be  sincere;  and  sincerity  is  the  main  secret  of  style. 
What  I  wrote  from  "  the  push  of  reading,"  as  Whit 
man  calls  it,  was  largely  an  artificial  product;  I  had 
not  made  it  my  own;  but  when  I  wrote  of  country 
scenes  and  experiences,  I  touched  the  quick  of  my 
mind,  and  it  was  more  easy  to  be  real  and  natural. 

I  also  wrote  in  1860  or  1861  a  number  of  things 
for  the  "Saturday  Press"  which  exhaled  the  Emer 
sonian  perfume.  If  you  will  look  them  over,  you 
will  see  how  my  mind  was  working  in  the  leading- 
strings  of  Analogy  —  often  a  forced  and  unreal 
Analogy. 

130 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

December,  1907. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  — 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  more  about  myself,  my 
life,  how  it  has  been  with  me,  etc.  It  is  an  inviting 
subject.  How  an  old  man  likes  to  run  on  about 
himself ! 

I  see  that  my  life  has  been  more  of  a  holiday 
than  most  persons',  much  more  than  was  my  fa 
ther's  or  his  father's.  I  have  picnicked  all  along  the 
way.  I  have  on  the  whole  been  gay  and  satisfied. 
I  have  had  no  great  crosses  or  burdens  to  bear;  no 
great  afflictions,  except  such  as  must  come  to  all 
who  live;  neither  poverty,  nor  riches.  I  have  had 
uniform  good  health,  true  friends,  and  some  con 
genial  companions.  I  have  done,  for  the  most  part, 
what  I  wanted  to  do.  Some  drudgery  I  have  had, 
that  is,  in  uncongenial  work  on  the  farm,  in  teach 
ing,  in  clerking,  and  in  bank-examining;  but  amid 
all  these  things  I  have  kept  an  outlook,  an  open 
door,  as  it  were,  out  into  the  free  fields  of  nature, 
and  a  buoyant  feeling  that  I  would  soon  be  there. 

My  farm  life  as  a  boy  was  at  least  a  half -holiday. 
The  fishing,  the  hunting,  the  berrying,  the  Sundays 
on  the  hills  or  in  the  woods,  the  sugar-making, 
the  apple-gathering  —  all  had  a  holiday  character. 
But  the  hoeing  corn,  and  picking  up  potatoes,  and 
cleaning  the  cow  stables,  had  little  of  this  charac 
ter.  I  have  never  been  a  cog  in  the  wheel  of  any 

131 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

great  concern.  I  have  never  had  to  sink  or  lose 
my  individuality.  I  have  been  under  no  exacting 
master  or  tyrant.  ...  I  have  never  been  a  slave 
to  any  bad  habit,  as  smoking,  drinking,  over-feed 
ing.  I  have  had  no  social  or  political  ambitions; 
society  has  not  curtailed  my  freedom  or  dictated 
my  dress  or  habits.  Neither  has  any  religious  order 
or  any  clique.  I  have  had  no  axe  to  grind.  I  have 
gone  with  such  men  and  women  as  I  liked,  irrespec 
tive  of  any  badge  of  wealth  or  reputation  or  so 
cial  prestige  that  they  might  wear.  I  have  looked 
for  simple  pleasures  everywhere,  and  have  found 
them.  I  have  not  sought  for  costly  pleasures,  and 
do  not  want  them  —  pleasures  that  cost  money, 
or  health,  or  time.  The  great  things,  the  precious 
things  of  my  life,  have  been  without  money  and 
without  price,  as  common  as  the  air. 

Life  has  laid  no  urgent  mission  upon  me.  My 
gait  has  been  a  leisurely  one.  I  am  not  bragging 
of  it;  I  am  only  stating  a  fact.  I  have  never  felt 
called  upon  to  reform  the  world.  I  have  doubtless 
been  culpably  indifferent  to  its  troubles  and  per 
plexities,  and  sins  and  sufferings.  I  lend  a  hand 
occasionally  here  and  there  in  my  own  neighbor 
hood,  but  I  trouble  myself  very  little  about  my 
neighbors  —  their  salvation  or  their  damnation. 
I  go  my  own  way  and  do  my  own  work. 

I  have  loved  nature,  I  have  loved  the  animals,  I 
132 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

have  loved  my  fellow-men.  I  have  made  my  own 
whatever  was  fair  and  of  good  report.  I  have  loved 
the  thoughts  of  the  great  thinkers  and  the  poems 
of  the  great  poets,  and  the  devout  lines  of  the  great 
religious  souls.  I  have  not  looked  afar  off  for  my 
joy  and  entertainment,  but  in  things  near  at  hand, 
that  all  may  have  on  equal  terms.  I  have  been  a 
loving  and  dutiful  son,  and  a  loving  and  dutiful 
father,  and  a  good  neighbor.  I  have  got  much  sat 
isfaction  out  of  life;  it  has  been  worth  while. 

I  have  not  been  a  burden-bearer;  for  shame  be 
it  said,  perhaps,  when  there  are  so  many  burdens 
to  be  borne  by  some  one.  I  have  borne  those  that 
came  in  my  way,  or  that  circumstances  put  upon 
me,  and  have  at  least  pulled  my  own  weight.  I 
have  had  my  share  of  the  holiday  spirit;  I  have  had 
a  social  holiday,  a  moral  holiday,  a  business  holi 
day.  I  have  gone  a-fishing  while  others  were  strug 
gling  and  groaning  and  losing  their  souls  in  the 
great  social  or  political  or  business  maelstrom.  I 
know,  too,  I  have  gone  a-fishing  while  others  have 
labored  in  the  slums  and  given  their  lives  to  the 
betterment  of  their  fellows.  But  I  have  been  a 
good  fisherman,  and  I  should  have  made  a  poor 
missionary,  or  reformer,  or  leader  of  any  crusade 
against  sin  and  crime.  I  am  not  a  fighter,  I  dislike 
any  sort  of  contest,  or  squabble,  or  competition,  or 
storm.  My  strength  is  in  my  calm,  my  serenity, 

133 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

my  sunshine.  In  excitement  I  lose  my  head,  and 
my  heels,  too.  I  cannot  carry  any  citadel  by  storm. 
I  lack  the  audacity  and  spirit  of  the  stormer.  I 
must  reduce  it  slowly  or  steal  it  quietly.  I  lack 
moral  courage,  though  I  have  plenty  of  physical 
and  intellectual  courage.  I  could  champion  Walt 
Whitman  when  nearly  every  contemporaneous 
critic  and  poet  were  crying  him  down,  but  I  utterly 
lack  the  moral  courage  to  put  in  print  what  he 
dared  to.  I  have  wielded  the  "big  stick"  against 
the  nature-fakers,  but  I  am  very  uncomfortable 
under  any  sort  of  blame  or  accusation.  It  is  so 
much  easier  for  me  to  say  yes  than  no.  My  moral 
fibre  is  soft  compared  to  my  intellectual.  I  am 
a  poor  preacher,  an  awkward  moralizer.  A  moral 
statement  does  not  interest  me  unless  it  can  be 
backed  up  by  natural  truth;  it  must  have  intellec 
tual  value.  The  religious  dogmas  interest  me  if 
I  can  find  a  scientific  basis  for  them,  otherwise 
not  at  all. 

I  shall  shock  you  by  telling  you  I  am  not  much 
of  a  patriot.  I  have  but  little  national  pride.  If 
we  went  to  war  with  a  foreign  power  to-morrow, 
my  sympathies  would  be  with  the  foreigner  if  I 
thought  him  in  the  right.  I  could  gladly  see  our 
navy  knocked  to  pieces  by  Japan,  for  instance,  if 
we  were  in  the  wrong.  I  have  absolutely  no  state 
pride,  any  more  than  I  have  county  or  town  pi'ide, 

134 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

or  neighborhood  pride.  But  I  make  it  up  in  fam 
ily  or  tribal  affection. 

I  am  too  much  preoccupied,  too  much  at  home 
with  myself,  to  feel  any  interest  in  many  things 
that  interest  my  fellows.  I  have  aimed  to  live  a 
sane,  normal,  healthy  life;  or,  rather,  I  have  an 
instinct  for  such  a  life.  I  love  life,  as  such,  and  I 
am  quickly  conscious  of  anything  that  threatens 
to  check  its  even  flow.  I  want  a  full  measure  of  it, 
and  I  want  it  as  I  do  my  spring  water,  clear  and 
sweet  and  from  the  original  sources.  Hence  I  have 
always  chafed  in  cities,  I  must  live  in  the  country. 
Life  in  the  cities  is  like  the  water  there  —  a  long 
way  from  the  original  sources,  and  more  or  less 
tainted  by  artificial  conditions. 

The  current  of  the  lives  of  many  persons,  I  think, 
is  like  a  muddy  stream.  They  lack  the  instinct 
for  health,  and  hence  do  not  know  when  the  vital 
current  is  foul.  They  are  never  really  well.  They 
do  not  look  out  for  personal  inward  sanitation. 
Smokers,  drinkers,  coffee-tipplers,  gluttonous  eat 
ers,  diners-out,  are  likely  to  lose  the  sense  of  perfect 
health,  of  a  clear,  pure  life-current,  of  which  I  am 
thinking.  The  dew  on  the  grass,  the  bloom  on  the 
grape,  the  sheen  on  the  plumage,  are  suggestions  of 
the  health  that  is  within  the  reach  of  most  of  us. 

The  least  cloud  or  film  in  my  mental  skies  mars 
or  stops  my  work.  I  write  with  my  body  quite  as 

135 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

much  as  with  my  mind.  How  persons  whose  bread 
of  life  is  heavy,  so  to  speak,  —  no  lightness  or  buoy 
ancy  or  airiness  at  all,  —  can  make  good  literature 
is  a  mystery  to  me;  or  those  who  stimulate  them 
selves  with  drugs  or  alcohol  or  coffee.  I  would  live 
so  that  I  could  get  tipsy  on  a  glass  of  water,  or 
find  a  spur  in  a  whiff  of  morning  air. 

Such  as  my  books  are,  the  bloom  of  my  life  is  in 
them;  no  morbidity,  or  discontent,  or  ill  health,  or 
angry  passion,  has  gone  to  their  making.  The  iri 
descence  of  a  bird's  plumage,  we  are  told,  is  not 
something  extraneous;  it  is  a  prismatic  effect.  So 
the  color  in  my  books  is  not  paint;  it  is  health.  It 
is  probably  nothing  to  brag  of ;  much  greater  books 
have  been  the  work  of  confirmed  invalids.  All  I  can 
say  is  that  the  minds  of  these  inspired  invalids  have 
not  seemed  to  sustain  so  close  a  relation  to  their 
bodies  as  my  mind  does  to  my  body.  Their  powers 
seem  to  have  been  more  purely  psychic.  Look  at 
Stevenson  —  almost  bedridden  all  his  life,  yet  be 
hold  the  felicity  of  his  work!  How  completely  his 
mind  must  have  been  emancipated  from  the  infirm 
ities  of  his  body!  It  is  clearly  not  thus  with  me. 
My  mind  is  like  a  flame  that  depends  entirely  upon 
the  good  combustion  going  on  in  the  body.  Hence, 
I  can  never  write  in  the  afternoon,  because  this 
combustion  is  poorest  then. 

Life  has  been  to  me  simply  an  opportunity  to 
136 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

learn  and  enjoy,  and,  through  my  books,  to  share 
my  enjoyment  with  others.  I  have  had  no  other 
ambition.  I  have  thirsted  to  know  things,  and  to 
make  the  most  of  them.  The  universe  is  to  me  a 
grand  spectacle  that  fills  me  with  awe  and  wonder 
and  joy,  and  with  intense  curiosity.  I  have  had 
no  such  religious  burden  to  bear  as  my  fathers  did 
—  the  conviction  of  sin,  the  struggle,  the  agony, 
the  despair  of  a  soul  that  fears  it  is  lost.  The  fear 
of  hell  has  never  troubled  me.  Of  sin  in  the  theolo 
gical  sense,  the  imputed  sin  of  Adam's  transgression, 
which  so  worried  the  old  people,  I  have  not  had 
a  moment's  concern.  That  I  have  given  my  heart 
to  Nature  instead  of  to  God,  as  these  same  old 
people  would  have  said,  has  never  cast  a  shadow 
over  my  mind  or  conscience  —  as  if  God  would  not 
get  all  that  belonged  to  Him,  and  as  if  love  of  his 
works  were  not  love  of  Him!  I  have  acquiesced  in 
things  as  they  are,  and  have  got  all  the  satisfaction 
out  of  them  that  I  could. 

Over  my  personal  sins  and  shortcomings,  I  have 
not  been  as  much  troubled  as  I  should;  none  of  us 
are.  We  do  not  see  them  in  relief  as  others  do;  they 
are  like  the  color  of  our  eyes,  or  our  hair,  or  the 
shapes  of  our  noses. 

I  do  not  know  that  it  is  true  that  my  moral  fibre 
is  actually  weak.  If  I  may  draw  a  figure  from 
geology,  it  is  probably  true  that  my  moral  quali- 

137 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

ties  are  the  softer  rock  in  the  strata  that  make  up 
my  being  —  the  easiest  worn  away.  I  see  that  I 
carry  the  instinct  of  the  naturalist  into  all  my 
activities.  If  a  thing  is  natural,  sane,  wholesome, 
that  is  enough.  Whether  or  not  it  is  convention 
ally  correct,  or  square  with  the  popular  conception 
of  morality,  does  not  matter  to  me. 

I  undoubtedly  lack  the  heroic  fibre.  My  edge 
is  much  easier  turned  than  was  that,  say,  of  Tho- 
reau.  Austerity  would  ill  become  me.  You  would 
see  through  the  disguise.  Yes,  there  is  much  soft 
rock  in  my  make-up.  Is  that  why  I  shrink  from  the 
wear  and  tear  of  the  world? 

The  religious  storm  and  upheaval  that  I  used  to 
hear  so  much  of  in  my  youth  is  impossible  with  me. 
I  am  liable  to  deep-seated  enthusiasms;  but  to  no 
thing  like  a  revolution  in  my  inward  life,  nothing 
sudden,  nothing  violent.  I  can't  say  that  there  has 
been  any  abandonment  of  my  opinions  on  impor 
tant  subjects;  there  has  been  new  growth  and  evo 
lution,  I  hope.  The  emphasis  of  life  shifts,  now 
here,  now  there;  it  is  up  hill  and  down  dale,  but 
there  is  no  change  of  direction.  .  .  .  Certain  deep- 
seated  tendencies  and  instincts  have  borne  me  on. 
I  have  gravitated  naturally  to  the  things  that  were 
mine. 

I  could  not  make  anything  I  chose  of  myself; 
I  could  only  be  what  I  am.  In  my  youth  I  once 

138 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

"went  forward"  at  a  "protracted  meeting,"  but 
nothing  came  of  it.  The  change  in  me  that  I  was 
told  would  happen  did  not  happen,  and  I  never 
went  again.  My  nature  was  too  equable,  too  self- 
poised,  to  be  suddenly  overturned  and  broken 
up. 

I  am  not  a  bit  gregarious.  I  cannot  herd  with 
other  men  and  be  "Hail,  fellow,  well  met!"  with 
them  as  I  wish  I  could.  I  am  much  more  at  home 
with  women;  we  seem  to  understand  one  another 
better.  Put  me  with  a  lot  of  men,  and  we  naturally 
separate  as  oil  and  water  separate.  On  shipboard 
it  is  rarely  that  any  of  the  men  take  to  me,  or  I  to 
them  —  I  do  not  smoke  or  drink  or  tell  stories,  or 
talk  business  or  politics,  and  the  men  have  little 
use  for  me.  On  my  last  voyage  across  the  Atlantic, 
the  only  man  who  seemed  to  notice  me,  or  to  whom 
I  felt  drawn  at  all,  was  a  Catholic  priest.  Real 
countrymen,  trappers,  hunters,  and  farmers,  I 
seem  to  draw  near  to.  On  the  Harriman  Alaskan 
Expedition  the  two  men  I  felt  most  at  home  with 
were  Fred  Dellenbaugh,  the  artist  and  explorer, 
and  Captain  Kelly,  the  guide.  Can  you  understand 
this  ?  Do  you  see  why  men  do  not,  as  a  rule,  care 
for  me,  and  why  women  do  ? 

I  accuse  myself  of  want  of  sociability.  Probably 
I  am  too  thin-skinned.  A  little  more  of  the  pachy 
derm  would  help  me  in  this  respect. 

139 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Some  day  I  will  give  you  more  self-analysis  and 
self-criticism. 


I  am  what  you  might  call  an  extemporaneous 
writer  —  I  write  without  any  previous  study  or 
preparation,  save  in  so  far  as  my  actual  life  from 
day  to  day  has  prepared  me  for  it.  I  do  not  work 
up  my  subject,  or  outline  it,  or  sketch  it  in  the 
rough.  When  I  sit  down  to  write  upon  any  theme, 
like  that  of  my  "Cosmopolitan"  article  last  April 
["What  Life  Means  to  Me,"  1906],  or  of  my  vari 
ous  papers  on  animal  intelligence,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  have  to  say  on  the  subject  till  I  delve 
into  my  mind  and  see  what  I  find  there.  The  writ 
ing  is  like  fishing  or  hunting,  or  sifting  the  sand  for 
gold  —  I  am  never  sure  of  what  I  shall  find.  All 
I  want  is  a  certain  feeling,  a  bit  of  leaven,  which  I 
seem  to  refer  to  some  place  in  my  chest  —  not  my 
heart,  but  to  a  point  above  that  and  nearer  the 
centre  of  the  chest  —  the  place  that  always  glows 
or  suffuses  when  one  thinks  of  any  joy  or  good  tid 
ings  that  is  coming  his  way.  It  is  a  kind  of  hunger 
for  that  subject;  it  warms  me  a  little  to  think  of 
it,  a  pleasant  thrill  runs  through  me ;  or  it  is  some 
thing  like  a  lover's  feeling  for  his  sweetheart  —  I 
long  to  be  alone  with  it,  and  to  give  myself  to  it.  I 
am  sure  I  shall  have  a  good  time.  Hence,  my  writ 
ing  is  the  measure  of  my  life.  I  can  write  only 

140 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

about  what  I  have  previously  felt  and  lived.  I  have 
no  legerdemain  to  invoke  things  out  of  the  air,  or 
to  make  a  dry  branch  bud  and  blossom  before  the 
eyes.  I  must  look  into  my  heart  and  write,  or 
remain  dumb.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  said  one 
should  be  able  to  write  eloquently  on  a  broomstick, 
and  so  he  could.  Stevenson  had  the  true  literary 
legerdemain;  he  was  master  of  the  art  of  writing; 
he  could  invest  a  broomstick  with  charm;  if  it  re 
mained  a  broomstick,  it  was  one  on  which  the 
witches  might  carry  you  through  the  air  at  night. 
Stevenson  had  no  burden  of  meaning  to  deliver  to 
the  world;  his  subject  never  compelled  him  to  write; 
but  he  certainly  could  invest  common  things  and 
thoughts  with  rare  grace  and  charm.  I  wish  I  had 
more  of  this  gift,  this  facility  of  pen,  apart  from  any 
personal  interest  in  the  subject.  I  could  not  grow 
eloquent  over  a  broomstick,  unless  it  was  the  stick 
of  the  broom  that  used  to  stand  in  the  corner  behind 
the  door  in  the  old  kitchen  at  home  —  the  broom 
with  which  Mother  used  to  sweep  the  floor,  and 
sweep  off  the  doorstones,  glancing  up  to  the  fields 
and  hills  as  she  finished  and  turned  to  go  in;  the 
broom  with  which  we  used  to  sweep  the  snow  from 
our  boots  and  trouser-legs  when  we  came  from 
school  or  from  doing  the  chores  in  winter.  Here 
would  be  a  personal  appeal  that  would  probably 
find  me  more  inevitably  than  it  would  Stevenson, 

141 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

I  have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  a  thing, 
of  taking  a  walk,  or  making  an  excursion,  for  the 
purpose  of  writing  it  up.  Hence,  when  magazine 
editors  have  asked  me  to  go  South  or  to  California, 
or  here  or  there,  to  write  the  text  to  go  with  the 
pictures  their  artist  would  make,  I  have  felt  con 
strained  to  refuse.  The  thought  that  I  was  ex 
pected  to  write  something  would  have  burdened 
me  and  stood  in  the  way  of  my  enjoyment,  and 
unless  there  is  enjoyment,  there  is  no  writing 
with  me. 

I  was  once  tempted  into  making  an  excursion  for 
one  of  the  magazines  to  a  delightful  place  along  the 
Jersey  coast  in  company  with  an  artist,  and  a  mem 
orable  day  it  was,  too,  with  plenty  of  natural  and 
of  human  interest,  but  nothing  came  of  it  —  my 
perverse  pen  would  not  do  what  it  was  expected 
to  do;  it  was  no  longer  a  free  pen. 

When  I  began  observing  the  birds,  nothing  was 
further  from  my  thoughts  than  writing  them  up. 
I  watched  them  and  ran  after  them  because  I  loved 
them  and  was  happy  with  them  in  the  fields  and 
woods;  the  writing  came  as  an  afterthought,  and  as 
a  desire  to  share  my  enjoyment  with  others.  Hence, 
I  have  never  carried  a  notebook,  or  collected  data 
about  nature  in  my  rambles  and  excursions.  What 
was  mine,  what  I  saw  with  love  and  emotion,  has 
always  fused  with  my  mind,  so  that  in  the  heat  of 

142 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

writing  it  came  back  to  me  spontaneously.  What 
I  have  lived,  I  never  lose. 

My  trip  to  Alaska  came  near  being  spoiled  be 
cause  I  was  expected  to  write  it  up,  and  actually 
did  so  from  day  to  day,  before  fusion  and  absorp 
tion  had  really  taken  place.  Hence  my  readers 
complain  that  they  do  not  find  me  in  that  narra 
tive,  do  not  find  my  stamp  or  quality  as  in  my 
other  writings.  And  well  they  may  say  it.  I  am 
conscious  that  I  am  not  there  as  in  the  others;  the 
fruit  was  plucked  before  it  had  ripened;  or,  to  use 
my  favorite  analogy,  the  bee  did  not  carry  the  nec 
tar  long  enough  to  transform  it  into  honey.  Had 
I  experienced  a  more  free  and  disinterested  inter 
course  with  Alaskan  nature,  with  all  the  pores  of 
my  mind  open,  the  result  would  certainly  have 
been  different.  I  might  then,  after  the  experience 
had  lain  and  ripened  in  my  mind  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  become  my  own,  have  got  myself  into  it. 

When  I  went  to  the  Yellowstone  National  Park 
with  President  Roosevelt,  I  waited  over  three 
years  before  writing  up  the  trip.  I  recall  the  Presi 
dent's  asking  me  at  the  time  if  I  took  notes.  I  said, 
"  No;  everything  that  interests  me  will  stick  to  me 
like  a  burr."  And  I  may  say  here  that  I  have  put 
nothing  in  my  writings  at  any  time  that  did  not 
interest  me.  I  have  aimed  in  this  to  please  myself 
alone.  I  believe  it  to  be  true  at  all  times  that  what 

143 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

does  not  interest  the  writer  will  not  interest  his 
reader. 

From  the  impromptu  character  of  my  writings 
come  both  their  merits  and  their  defects  —  their 
fresh,  unstudied  character,  and  their  want  of  thor 
oughness  and  reference-book  authority.  I  cannot, 
either  in  my  writing  or  in  my  reading,  tolerate  any 
delay,  any  flagging  of  the  interest,  any  beating 
about  the  bush,  even  if  there  is  a  bird  in  it.  The 
thought,  the  description,  must  move  right  along, 
and  I  am  impatient  of  all  footnotes  and  quotations 
and  asides. 

A  writer  may  easily  take  too  much  thought  about 
his  style,  until  it  obtrudes  itself  upon  the  reader's 
attention.  I  would  have  my  sentences  appear  as 
if  they  had  never  taken  a  moment's  thought  of 
themselves,  nor  stood  before  the  study  looking- 
glass  an  instant.  In  fact,  the  less  a  book  appears 
written,  the  more  like  a  spontaneous  product  it  is, 
the  better  I  like  it.  This  is  not  a  justification  of 
carelessness  or  haste;  it  is  a  plea  for  directness, 
vitality,  motion.  Those  writers  who  are  like  still- 
water  fishermen,  whose  great  virtues  are  patience 
and  a  tireless  arm,  never  appealed  to  me  any  more 
than  such  fishing  ever  did.  I  want  something  more 
like  a  mountain  brook  —  motion,  variety,  and  the 
furthest  possible  remove  from  stagnation. 

Indeed,  where  can  you  find  a  better  symbol  of 
144 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

good  style  in  literature  than  a  mountain  brook 
after  it  is  well  launched  towards  the  lowlands  — 
not  too  hurried,  and  not  too  loitering  —  limpid, 
musical,  but  not  noisy,  full  but  not  turbid,  spark 
ling  but  not  frothy,  every  shallow  quickly  compen 
sated  for  by  a  deep  reach  of  thought;  the  calm, 
lucid  pools  of  meaning  alternating  with  the  pas 
sages  of  rapid  description,  of  moving  eloquence  or 
gay  comment  —  flowing,  caressing,  battling,  as  the 
need  may  be,  loitering  at  this  point,  hurrying  at 
that,  drawing  together  here,  opening  out  there  — 
freshness,  variety,  lucidity,  power. 

[We  wish  that,  like  the  brook,  our  self-analyst  would 
"go  on  forever";  but  his  stream  of  thought  met  some 
obstacle  when  he  had  written  thus  far,  and  I  have  never 
been  able  to  induce  it  to  resume  its  flow.  I  have,  there 
fore,  selected  a  bit  of  self-analysis  from  Mr.  Burroughs's 
diary  of  December,  1884,  with  which  to  close  this  sub 
ject.  C.B.] 

I  have  had  to  accomplish  in  myself  the  work 
of  several  generations.  None  of  my  ancestors  were 
men  or  women  of  culture;  they  knew  nothing  of 
books.  I  have  had  to  begin  at  the  stump,  and  to  rise 
from  crude  things.  I  have  felt  the  disadvantages 
which  I  have  labored  under,  as  well  as  the  advan 
tages.  The  advantages  are,  that  things  were  not 
hackneyed  with  me,  curiosity  was  not  blunted,  my, 
faculties  were  fresh  and  eager  —  a  kind  of  virgin 

145 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

soil  that  gives  whatever  charm  and  spontaneity 
my  books  possess,  also  whatever  of  seriousness  and 
religiousness.  The  disadvantages  are  an  inaptitude 
for  scholarly  things,  a  want  of  the  steadiness  and 
clearness  of  the  tone  of  letters,  the  need  of  a  great 
deal  of  experimenting,  a  certain  thickness  and  in 
distinctness  of  accent.  The  farmer  and  laborer  in 
me,  many  generations  old,  is  a  little  embarrassed 
in  the  company  of  scholars;  has  to  make  a  great 
effort  to  remember  his  learned  manners  and  terms. 

The  unliterary  basis  is  the  best  to  start  from; 
it  is  the  virgin  soil  of  the  wilderness;  but  it  is  a 
good  way  to  the  college  and  the  library,  and  much 
work  must  be  done.  I  am  near  to  nature  and  can 
write  upon  these  themes  with  ease  and  success;  this 
is  my  proper  field,  as  I  well  know.  But  bookisi 
themes  —  how  I  flounder  about  amid  them,  and 
have  to  work  and  delve  long  to  get  down  to  the 
real  truth  about  them  in  my  mind! 

In  writing  upon  Emerson,  or  Arnold,  or  Carlyle, 
I  have  to  begin,  as  it  were,  and  clear  the  soil,  build 
a  log  hut,  and  so  work  up  to  the  point  of  view  that 
is  not  provincial,  but  more  or  less  metropolitan. 

My  best  gift  as  a  writer  is  my  gift  for  truth; 
I  have  a  thoroughly  honest  mind,  and  know  the 
truth  when  I  see  it.  My  humility,  or  modesty,  or 
want  of  self-assertion,  call  it  what  you  please,  is 
also  a  help  in  bringing  me  to  the  truth.  I  am  not 

146 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

likely  to  stand  in  my  own  light;  nor  to  mistake  my 
own  wants  and  whims  for  the  decrees  of  the  Eternal. 
At  least,  if  I  make  the  mistake  to-day,  I  shall  see 
my  error  to-morrow. 

[The  discerning  reader  can  hardly  fail  to  trace  in  the 
foregoing  unvarnished  account  of  our  subject's  ancestry 
and  environment  many  of  the  factors  which  have  con 
tributed  to  the  unique  success  he  has  attained  as  a 
writer.  Nor  can  he  fail  to  trace  a  certain  likeness, 
of  which  our  author  seems  unconscious,  to  his  father. 
To  his  mother  he  has  credited  most  of  his  gifts  as  a 
writer,  but  to  that  childlike  unselfconsciousness  which 
he  describes  in  his  father,  we  are  doubtless  largely  in 
debted  for  the  candid  self -analysis  here  given. 

But  few  writers  could  compass  such  a  thing,  yet  he  has 
done  it  simply  and  naturally,  as  he  would  write  on  any 
other  topic  in  which  he  was  genuinely  interested.  To  be 
naked  and  unashamed  is  a  condition  lost  by  most  of  us 
long  ago,  but  retained  by  a  few  who  still  have  many  of 
the  traits  of  the  natural  man.  C.B.] 


THE  EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN 
BURROUGHS 

I  ONCE  asked  Mr.  Burroughs  about  his  early 
writings,  his  beginnings.  He  replied,  "They 
were  small  potatoes  and  few  in  a  hill,  although  at 
the  time  I  evidently  thought  I  was  growing  some 
big  ones.  I  had  yet  to  learn,  as  every  young  writer 
has  to  learn,  that  big  words  do  not  necessarily  mean 
big  thoughts."  Later  he  sent  me  these  maiden 
efforts,  with  an  account  of  when  and  where  they 
appeared. 

These  early  articles  show  that  Mr.  Burroughs 
was  a  born  essayist.  They  all  took  the  essay  form. 
In  his  reading,  as  he  has  said,  any  book  of  essays 
was  pretty  sure  to  arrest  his  attention.  He  seems 
early  to  have  developed  a  hunger  for  the  pure  stuff 
of  literature  —  something  that  would  feed  his 
intellect  at  the  same  time  that  it  appealed  to  his 
aesthetic  sense.  Concerning  his  first  essays,  he 
wrote  me :  — 

The  only  significant  thing  about  my  first  essays,  writ 
ten  between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty-three,  is 
their  serious  trend  of  thought;  but  the  character  of  my 
early  reading  was  serious  and  philosophical.  Locke  and 
Johnson  and  Saint-Pierre  and  the  others  no  doubt  left 
their  marks  upon  me.  I  diligently  held  my  mind  down 

148 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

to  the  grindstone  of  Locke's  philosophy,  and  no  doubt 
my  mind  was  made  brighter  and  sharper  by  the  process. 
Out  of  Saint-Pierre's  "Studies  of  Nature,"  a  work  I  had 
never  before  heard  of,  I  got  something,  though  it  would 
be  hard  for  me  to  say  just  .what.  The  work  is  a  curious 
blending  of  such  science  as  there  was  in  his  time,  with 
sentiment  and  fancy,  and  enlivened  by  a  bright  French 
mind.  I  still  look  through  it  with  interest,  and  find  that 
it  has  a  certain  power  of  suggestion  for  me  yet. 

He  confessed  that  he  was  somewhat  imposed 
upon  by  Dr.  Johnson's  high-sounding  platitudes. 
"  A  beginner,"  he  said, "  is  very  apt  to  feel  that  if  he 
is  going  to  write,  the  thing  to  do  is  to  write,  and  get 
as  far  from  the  easy  conversational  manner  as  possi 
ble.  Let  your  utterances  be  measured  and  stately." 
At  first  he  tried  to  imitate  Johnson,  but  soon  gave 
that  up.  He  was  less  drawn  to  Addison  and  Lamb 
at  the  time,  because  they  were  less  formal,  and  seem 
ingly  less  profound;  and  was  slow  in  perceiving  thafe 
the  art  of  good  writing  is  the  art  of  bringing  one's 
mind  and  soul  face  to  face  with  that  of  the  reader. 
How  different  that  early  attitude  from  the  pene 
trating  criticism  running  through  his  "Literary 
Values";  how  different  his  stilted  beginnings  from 
his  own  limpid  prose  as  we  know  it,  to  read  which 
is  to  forget  that  one  is  reading! 

Mr.  Burroughs's  very  first  appearance  in  print 
was  in  a  paper  in  Delaware  County,  New  York,  — • 

149 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  Bloomville  "Mirror,"  — on  May  13,  1856. 
The  article  —  "  Vagaries  viz.  Spiritualism  "  pur 
ports  to  be  written  by  "Philomath,"  of  Roxbury, 
New  York,  who  is  none  other  than  John  Burroughs, 
at  the  age  of  nineteen.  It  starts  out  showing  impa 
tience  at  the  unreasoning  credulity  of  the  supersti 
tious  mind,  and  continues  in  a  mildly  derisive  strain 
for  about  a  column,  foreshadowing  the  controver 
sial  spirit  which  Mr.  Burroughs  displayed  many 
years  later  in  taking  to  task  the  natural-history 
romancers.  The  production  was  evidently  provoked 
by  a  too  credulous  writer  on  spiritualism  in  a  pre 
vious  issue  of  the  "Mirror."  I  will  quote  its  first 
paragraph:  — 

MR.  MIRROR,  —  Notwithstanding  the  general  diffu 
sion  of  knowledge  in  the  nineteenth  century,  it  is  a  lam 
entable  fact  that  some  minds  are  so  obscured  by  igno 
rance,  or  so  blinded  by  superstition,  as  to  rely  with  im 
plicit  confidence  upon  the  validity  of  opinions  which 
have  no  foundation  in  nature,  or  no  support  by  the 
deductions  of  reason.  But  truth  and  error  have  always 
been  at  variance,  and  the  audacity  of  the  contest  has 
kept  pace  with  the  growing  vigor  of  the  contending 
parties.  Some  straightforward,  conscientious  persons, 
whose  intentions  are  undoubtedly  commendable,  are  so 
infatuated  by  the  sophistical  theories  of  the  spiritualist, 
or  so  tossed  about  on  the  waves  of  public  opinion,  that 
they  lose  sight  of  truth  and  good  sense,  and,  like  the 
philosopher  who  looked  higher  than  was  wise  in  his  star 
gazing,  tumble  into  a  ditch. 

150 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

In  1859  or  1860,  Mr.  Burroughs  began  to  con 
tribute  to  the  columns  of  the  "Saturday  Press," 
an  organ  of  the  literary  bohemians  in  New  York, 
edited  by  Henry  Clapp.  These  were  fragmentary 
things  of  a  philosophical  cast,  and  were  grouped 
under  the  absurd  title  "Fragments  from  the  Table 
of  an  Intellectual  Epicure,"  by  "All  Souls."  There 
were  about  sixty  of  these  fragments.  I  have  ex 
amined  most  of  them;  some  are  fanciful  and  far 
fetched;  some  are  apt  and  felicitous;  but  all  fore 
shadow  the  independent  thinker  and  observer,  and 
show  that  this  "Intellectual  Epicure"  was  feeding 
on  strong  meat  and  assimilating  it. 

I  assume  that  it  will  interest  the  reader  who 
knows  Mr.  Burroughs  only  as  the  practiced  writer 
of  the  past  fifty  years  to  see  some  of  his  first  sallies 
into  literature,  to  trace  the  unlikeness  to  his  pres 
ent  style,  and  the  resemblances  here  and  there. 
Accordingly  I  subjoin  some  extracts  by  "All  Souls" 
from  the  time-stained  pages  of  the  New  York 
"Saturday  Press"  of  1859  and  1860:  — 

A  principle  of  absolute  truth,  pointed  with  fact  and 
feathered  with  fancy,  and  shot  from  the  bow-string  of  a 
master  intellect,  is  one  of  the  most  potent  things  under 
the  sun.  It  sings  like  a  bird  of  peace  to  those  who  are  not 
the  object  of  its  aim,  but  woe,  woe  to  him  who  is  the  butt 
of  such  terrible  archery! 

For  a  thing  to  appear  heavy  to  us,  it  is  necessary  that 
151 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

we  have  heft  to  balance  against  it;  to  appear  strong,  it  is 
necessary  that  we  have  strength;  to  appear  great,  it  is 
necessary  that  we  have  an  idea  of  greatness.  We  must 
have  a  standard  to  measure  by,  and  that  standard  must 
be  in  ourselves.  An  ignorant  peasant  cannot  know  that 
Bacon  is  so  wise.  To  duly  appreciate  genius,  you  must 
have  genius;  a  pigmy  cannot  measure  the  strength  of  a 
giant.  The  faculty  that  reads  and  admires,  is  the  green 
undeveloped  state  of  the  faculty  that  writes  and  creates. 
A  book,  a  principle,  an  individual,  a  landscape,  or 
any  object  in  nature,  to  be  understood  and  appreciated, 
must  answer  to  something  within  us;  appreciation  is  the 
first  step  toward  interpreting  a  revelation. 

To  feel  terribly  beaten  is  a  good  sign;  the  more  re 
sources  a  man  is  conscious  of,  the  deeper  he  will  feel  his 
defeat.  But  to  feel  unusually  elated  at  a  victory  indi 
cates  that  our  strength  did  not  warrant  it,  that  we  had 
gone  beyond  our  resources.  The  boy  who  went  crowing 
all  day  through  the  streets,  on  having  killed  a  squirrel 
with  a  stone,  showed  plainly  enough  that  it  was  not  a 
general  average  of  his  throwing,  and  that  he  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  doing  so  well;  while  the  rifleman  picks  the 
hawk  from  the  distant  tree  without  remark  or  comment, 
and  feels  vexed  if  he  miss. 

The  style  of  some  authors,  like  the  manners  of  some 
men,  is  so  naked,  so  artificial,  has  so  little  character  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  that  it  is  constantly  intruding  itself 
upon  your  notice,  and  seems  to  lie  there  like  a  huge  mar 
ble  counter  from  behind  which  they  vend  only  pins  and 
needles;  whereas  the  true  function  of  style  is  as  a  means 
and  not  as  an  end  —  to  concentrate  the  attention  upon 

152 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  thought  which  it  bears,  and  not  upon  itself  —  to  be 
so  apt,  natural,  and  easy,  and  so  in  keeping  with  the 
character  of  the  author,  that,  like  the  comb  in  the  hive, 
it  shall  seem  the  result  of  that  which  it  contains,  and  to 
exist  for  its  sake  alone. 

It  is  interesting  to  note,  in  these  and  other  ex 
tracts,  how  the  young  writer  is  constantly  tracing 
the  analogy  between  the  facts  of  everyday  life  about 
him,  and  moral  and  intellectual  truths.  A  little 
later  he  began  to  knit  these  fragments  together  into 
essays,  and  to  send  the  essays  to  the  "Saturday 
Press"  under  such  titles  as  "Deep,"  and  "A 
Thought  on  Culture."  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
stating  the  same  thing  in  diverse  ways.  The  writer 
seems  to  be  led  on  and  on  to  seek  analogies  which, 
for  the  most  part,  are  felicitous;  occasionally  crudi 
ties  and  unnecessarily  homely  comparisons  betray 
his  unformed  taste.  The  first  three  paragraphs  of 
"Deep"  give  a  fair  sample  of  the  essay:  — 

Deep  authors?  Yes,  reader,  I  like  deep  authors,  that 
is,  authors  of  great  penetration,  reach,  and  compass  of 
thought;  but  I  must  not  be  bored  with  a  sense  of  depth 
—  must  not  be  required  to  strain  my  mental  vision  to  see 
into  the  bottom  of  a  well;  the  fountain  must  flow  out  at 
the  surface,  though  it  come  from  the  centre  of  the  globe. 
Then  I  can  fill  my  cup  without  any  artificial  aid,  or  any 
painful  effort. 

What  we  call  depth  in  a  book  is  often  obscurity;  and 
an  author  whose  meaning  is  got  at  only  by  severe  mental 

153 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

exertion,  and  a  straining  of  the  mind's  eye,  is  generally 
weak  in  the  backbone  of  him.  Occasionally  it  is  the  dull 
ness  of  the  reader,  but  oftener  the  obtuseness  of  the 
writer. 

A  strong  vigorous  writer  is  not  obscure  —  at  any 
rate,  not  habitually  so;  never  leaves  his  reader  in  doubt, 
or  compels  him  to  mount  the  lever  and  help  to  raise  his 
burden;  but  clutches  it  in  his  mighty  grasp  and  hurls  it 
into  the  air,  so  that  it  is  not  only  unencumbered  by  the 
soil  that  gave  it  birth,  but  is  wholly  detached  and  re 
lieved,  and  set  off  against  the  clear  blue  of  his  imagina 
tion.  His  thought  is  not  like  a  rock  propped  up  but  still 
sod-bound,  but  is  like  a  rock  held  aloft,  or  built  into  a 
buttress,  with  definite  shape  and  outline. 

Let  me  next  quote  from  "A  Thought  on  Cul 
ture,"  which  appeared  in  the  same  publication  a 
little  later,  and  which  is  the  first  to  bear  his  signa 
ture:  — 

In  the  conduct  of  life  a  man  should  not  show  his 
knowledge,  but  his  wisdom;  not  his  money  —  that  were 
vulgar  and  foolish  —  but  the  result  of  it  —  independ 
ence,  courage,  culture,  generosity,  manliness,  and  that 
noble,  humane,  courteous  air  which  wealth  always 
brings  to  the  right  sort  of  a  man. 

A  display  of  mere  knowledge,  under  most  circum 
stances,  is  pedantry;  an  exercise  of  wisdom  is  always 
godlike.  We  cannot  pardon  the  absence  of  knowledge, 
but  itself  must  be  hid.  We  can  use  a  thing  without  abso 
lutely  showing  it,  we  can  be  reasonable  without  boring 
people  with  our  logic,  and  speak  correctly  without  pars 
ing  our  sentences. 

154 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

The  end  of  knowledge  is  not  that  a  man  may  appear 
learned,  any  more  than  the  end  of  eating  is  that  a  man 
may  seem  to  have  a  full  stomach;  but  the  end  of  it  is 
that  a  man  may  be  wise,  see  and  understand  things  as 
they  are;  be  able  to  adjust  himself  to  the  universe  in 
which  he  is  placed,  and  judge  and  reason  with  the  celer 
ity  of  instinct,  and  that  without  any  conscious  exercise 
of  his  knowledge.  When  we  feel  the  food  we  have  eaten, 
something  is  wrong;  so  when  a  man  is  forever  conscious 
of  his  learning,  he  has  not  digested  it,  and  it  is  an  en 
cumbrance.  .  .  . 

The  evolution  of  this  author  in  his  use  of  titles 
is  interesting.  Compare  the  crudity  of  "Vagaries 
viz.  Spiritualism,"  and  "  Deep,"  for  example,  with 
those  he  selects  when  he  begins  to  publish  his 
books.  "Wake-Robin,"  "Winter  Sunshine,"  "Lo 
custs  and  Wild  Honey,"  "Leaf  and  Tendril,"  — 
how  much  they  connote!  Then  how  felicitous  are 
the  titles  of  most  of  his  essays  !  "Birch  Brows 
ings,"  "The  Snow-Walkers,"  "  Mellow  England," 
"Our  Rural  Divinity"  (the  cow),  "The  Flight  of 
the  Eagle  "  (for  one  of  his  early  essays  on  Whitman), 
"A  Bunch  of  Herbs,"  "A  Pinch  of  Salt,"  "The 
Divine  Soil,"  "The  Long  Road"  (on  evolution)  — 
these  and  many  others  will  occur  to  the  reader. 

Following  "A  Thought  on  Culture"  was  a  short 
essay  on  poetry,  the  drift  of  which  is  that  poetry 
as  contrasted  with  science  must  give  us  things,  not 
as  they  are  in  themselves,  but  as  they  stand  related 

155 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

to  our  experience.  Our  young  writer  is  more  at  his 
ease  now :  — 

Science,  of  course,  is  literal,  as  it  ought  to  be,  but 
science  is  not  life;  science  takes  no  note  of  this  finer  self, 
this  duplicate  on  a  higher  scale.  Science  never  laughs 
or  cries,  or  whistles  or  sings,  or  falls  in  love,  or  sees  aught 
but  the  coherent  reality.  It  says  a  soap  bubble  is  a  soap 
bubble  —  a  drop  of  water  impregnated  with  oleate  of 
potash  or  soda,  and  inflated  with  common  air;  but  life 
says  it  is  a  crystal  sphere,  dipped  in  the  rainbow,  buoy 
ant  as  hope,  sensitive  as  the  eye,  with  a  power  to  make 
children  dance  for  joy,  and  to  bring  youth  into  the  look 
of  the  old.  .  .  . 

Who  in  his  youth  ever  saw  the  swallow  of  natural 
history  to  be  the  twittering,  joyous  bird  that  built  mud 
nests  beneath  his  father's  shed,  and  in  the  empty  odorous 
barn?  —  that  snapped  the  insects  that  flew  up  in  his  way 
when  returning  at  twilight  from  the  upland  farm;  and 
that  filled  his  memory  with  such  visions  of  summer  when 
he  first  caught  its  note  on  some  bright  May  morning, 
flying  up  the  southern  valley?  Describe  water,  or  a  tree, 
in  the  language  of  exact  science,  or  as  they  really  are  in 
and  of  themselves,  and  what  person,  schooled  only  in 
nature,  would  recognize  them?  Things  must  be  given  as 
they  seem,  as  they  stand  represented  in  the  mind.  Ob 
jects  arrange  themselves  in  our  memory,  not  according 
to  the  will,  or  any  real  quality  in  themselves,  but  as  they 
affect  our  lives  and  stand  to  us  in  our  unconscious  mo 
ments.  The  hills  we  have  dwelt  among,  the  rocks  and 
trees  we  have  looked  upon  in  all  moods  and  feelings, 
that  stood  to  us  as  the  shore  to  the  sea,  and  received  a 
thousand  impresses  of  what  we  lived  and  suffered,  have 

156 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

significance  to  us  that  is  not  accounted  for  by  anything 
we  can  see  or  feel  in  them. 

Here  we  see  the  youth  of  twenty-three  setting 
forth  a  truth  which  he  has  sedulously  followed  in 
his  own  writing  about  nature,  the  following  of 
which  accounts  so  largely  for  the  wide  appeal  his 
works  have  made. 

Some  time  in  1860,  Mr.  Burroughs  began  to  send 
essays  to  the  New  York  "Leader,"  a  weekly  paper, 
the  organ  of  Tammany  Hall  at  that  time.  His  first 
article  was  made  up  of  three  short  essays  —  "World 
Growth,"  "New  Ideas,"  and  "Theory  and  Prac 
tice."  Here  beyond  question  is  the  writer  we  know: 

The  ideas  that  indicate  the  approach  of  a  new  era  in 
history  come  like  bluebirds  in  the  spring,  if  you  have  ever 
noticed  how  that  is.  The  bird  at  first  seems  a  mere 
wandering  voice  in  the  air;  you  hear  its  carol  on  some 
bright  morning  in  March,  but  are  uncertain  of  its  course 
or  origin;  it  seems  to  come  from  some  source  you  cannot 
divine;  it  falls  like  a  drop  of  rain  when  no  cloud  is  visible; 
you  look  and  listen,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  weather 
changes,  and  it  is  not  till  a  number  of  days  that  you  hear 
the  note  again,  or,  maybe,  see  the  bird  darting  from  a 
stake  in  the  fence,  or  flitting  from  one  mullein-stalk  to 
another.  Its  notes  now  become  daily  more  frequent;  the 
birds  multiply;  they  sing  less  in  the  air  and  more  when  at 
rest;  and  their  music  is  louder  and  more  continuous,  but 
less  sweet  and  plaintive.  Their  boldness  increases  and 
soon  you  see  them  flitting  with  a  saucy  and  inquiring  air 

157 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

about  barns  and  outbuildings,  peeping  into  dove-cots 
and  stable  windows,  and  prospecting  for  a  place  to  nest. 
They  wage  war  against  robins,  pick  quarrels  with  swal 
lows,  and  would  forcibly  appropriate  their  mud  houses, 
seeming  to  doubt  the  right  of  every  other  bird  to  exist 
but  themselves.  But  soon,  as  the  season  advances,  do 
mestic  instincts  predominate;  they  subside  quietly  into 
their  natural  places,  and  become  peaceful  members  of 
the  family  of  birds. 

So  the  thoughts  that  indicate  the  approach  of  a  new 
era  in  history  at  first  seem  to  be  mere  disembodied, 
impersonal  voices  somewhere  in  the  air;  sweet  and  plain 
tive,  half-sung  and  half-cried  by  some  obscure  and 
unknown  poet.  We  know  not  whence  they  come,  nor 
whither  they  tend.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  sight  or  experi 
ence.  They  do  not  attach  themselves  to  any  person  or 
place,  and  their  longitude  and  latitude  cannot  be  com 
puted.  But  presently  they  become  individualized  and 
centre  in  some  Erasmus,  or  obscure  thinker,  and  from  a 
voice  in  the  air,  become  a  living  force  on  the  earth.  They 
multiply  and  seem  contagious,  and  assume  a  thousand 
new  forms.  They  grow  quarrelsome  and  demonstrative, 
impudent  and  conceited,  crowd  themselves  in  where  they 
have  no  right,  and  would  fain  demolish  or  appropriate 
every  institution  and  appointment  of  society.  But  after 
a  time  they  settle  into  their  proper  relations,  incorporate 
themselves  in  the  world,  and  become  new  sources  of 
power  and  progress  in  history. 

This  quotation  is  especially  significant,  as  it 
shows  the  writer's  already  keen  observation  of  the 
birds,  and  his  cleverness  in  appropriating  these  facts 

158 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

of  nature  to  his  philosophical  purpose.  How  neatly 
it  is  done!  Readers  of  "Wake-Robin"  will  recog 
nize  a  part  of  it  in  the  matchless  description  of  the 
bluebird  which  is  found  in  the  initial  essay  of  that 
book. 

In  1860,  in  the  "Leader,"  there  also  appeared  a 
long  essay  by  Mr.  Burroughs,  "On  Indirections." 
This  has  the  most  unity  and  flow  of  thought  of 
any  thus  far.  It  is  so  good  I  should  like  to  quote  it 
all.  Here  are  the  opening  paragraphs :  — 


The  South  American  Indian  who  discovered  the  silver 
mines  of  Potosi  by  the  turning  up  of  a  bush  at  the  roots, 
which  he  had  caught  hold  of  to  aid  his  ascent  while  pur 
suing  a  deer  up  a  steep  hill,  represents  very  well  how  far 
intention  and  will  are  concerned  in  the  grand  results  that 
flow  from  men's  lives.  Every  schoolboy  knows  that 
many  of  the  most  valuable  discoveries  in  science  and  art 
were  accidental,  or  a  kind  of  necessity,  and  sprang  from 
causes  that  had  no  place  in  the  forethought  of  the  dis 
coverer.  The  ostrich  lays  its  eggs  in  the  sand,  and  the 
sun  hatches  them ;  so  man  puts  forth  an  effort  and  higher 
powers  second  him,  and  he  finds  himself  the  source  of 
events  that  he  had  never  conceived  or  meditated.  Things 
are  so  intimately  connected  and  so  interdependent,  the 
near  and  the  remote  are  so  closely  related,  and  all  parts 
of  the  universe  are  so  mutually  sympathetic,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  tell  what  momentous  secrets  may  lurk 
under  the  most  trifling  facts,  or  what  grand  and  beauti 
ful  results  may  be  attained  through  low  and  unimportant 
means.  It  seems  that  Nature  delights  in  surprise,  and  in 

159 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

underlying  our  careless  existences  with  plans  that  are 
evermore  to  disclose  themselves  to  us  and  stimulate  us 
to  new  enterprise  and  research.  The  simplest  act  of  life 
may  discover  a  chain  of  cause  and  effect  that  binds 
together  the  most  remote  parts  of  the  system.  We  are 
often  nearest  to  truth  in  some  unexpected  moment,  and 
may  stumble  upon  that  while  in  a  careless  mood  which 
has  eluded  our  most  vigilant  and  untiring  efforts.  Men 
have  seen  deepest  and  farthest  when  they  opened  their 
eyes  without  any  special  aim,  and  a  word  or  two  care 
lessly  dropped  by  a  companion  has  revealed  to  me  a 
truth  that  weeks  of  study  had  failed  to  compass.  .  .  . 
Nature  will  not  be  come  at  directly,  but  indirectly; 
all  her  ways  are  retiring  and  elusive,  and  she  is  more  apt 
to  reveal  herself  to  her  quiet,  unobtrusive  lover,  than  to 
her  formal,  ceremonious  suitor.  A  man  who  goes  out 
to  admire  the  sunset,  or  to  catch  the  spirit  of  field  and 
grove,  will  very  likely  come  back  disappointed.  A  bird 
seldom  sings  when  watched,  and  Nature  is  no  coquette, 
and  will  not  ogle  and  attitudinize  when  stared  at.  The 
farmer  and  traveler  drink  deepest  of  this  cup,  because  it 
is  always  a  surprise  and  comes  without  forethought  or 
preparation.  No  insulation  or  entanglement  takes  place, 
and  the  soothing,  medicinal  influence  of  the  fields  and 
the  wood  takes  possession  of  us  as  quietly  as  a  dream, 
and  before  we  know  it  we  are  living  the  life  of  the  grass 
and  the  trees. 

How  unconsciously  here  he  describes  his  own 
intercourse  with  Nature!  And  what  an  unusual 
production  for  a  youth  of  twenty-three  of  such 
meagre  educational  advantages! 

160 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

In  1862,  in  an  essay  on  "Some  of  the  Ways  of 
Power,"  which  appeared  in  the  "Leader,"  he  cele 
brated  the  beauty  and  completeness  of  nature's 
inexorable  laws:  — 

There  is  an  evident  earnestness  and  seriousness  in 
the  meaning  of  things,  and  the  laws  that  traverse 
nature  and  our  own  being  are  as  fixed  and  inexorable, 
though,  maybe,  less  instantaneous  and  immediate  in 
their  operation,  as  the  principle  of  gravitation,  and  are 
as  little  disposed  to  pardon  the  violator  or  adjourn  the 
day  of  adjudication. 

There  seems  to  be  this  terrible  alternative  put  to  every 
man  on  entering  the  world,  conquer  or  be  conquered.  It  is 
what  the  waves  say  to  the  swimmer,  "  Use  me  or  drown  " ; 
what  gravity  says  to  the  babe,  "Use  me  or  fall";  what 
the  winds  say  to  the  sailor,  "Use  me  or  be  wrecked"; 
what  the  passions  say  to  every  one  of  us,  "Drive  or  be 
driven."  Time  in  its  dealings  with  us  says  plainly  enough, 
"Here  I  am,  your  master  or  your  servant."  If  we  fail 
to  make  a  good  use  of  time,  time  will  not  fail  to  make  a 
bad  use  of  us.  The  miser  does  not  use  his  money,  so  his 
money  uses  him;  men  do  not  govern  their  ambition,  and 
so  are  governed  by  it. ... 

These  considerations  are  valuable  chiefly  for  their 
analogical  import.  They  indicate  a  larger  truth.  Man 
grows  by  conquering  his  limitations  —  by  subduing  new 
territory  and  occupying  it.  He  commences  life  on  a  very 
small  capital;  his  force  yet  lies  outside  of  him,  scattered 
up  and  down  in  the  world  like  his  wealth  —  in  rocks,  in 
trees,  in  storms  and  flood,  in  dangers,  in  difficulties,  in 
hardships,  —  in  short,  in  whatever  opposes  his  progress 

161 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

and  puts  on  a  threatening  front.  The  first  difficulty 
overcome,  the  first  victory  gained,  is  so  much  added  to 
his  side  of  the  scale  —  so  much  reinforcement  of  pure 
power. 

I  have  said  elsewhere  that  Mr.  Burroughs  has 
written  himself  into  his  books.  We  see  him  doing 
this  in  these  early  years;  he  was  an  earnest  student 
of  life  at  an  age  when  most  young  men  would  have 
been  far  less  seriously  occupied.  Difficulties  and 
hardships  were  roundabout  him,  his  force  was,  in 
deed,  "  scattered  up  and  down  in  the  world,  in 
rocks  and  trees,"  in  birds  and  flowers,  and  from 
these  sources  he  was  even  then  wresting  the  begin 
nings  of  his  successful  career. 

It  was  in  November,  1860,  when  twenty -three 
years  of  age,  that  he  made  his  first  appearance  in 
the  pages  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  in  the  essay 
"Expression,"  comments  upon  which  by  its  author 
I  have  already  quoted.  At  that  time  he  was  under 
the  Emersonian  spell  of  which  he  speaks  in  his 
autobiographical  sketch.  Other  readers  and  lovers 
of  Emerson  had  had  similar  experiences.  Brownlee 
Brown,  an  "Atlantic"  contributor  (of  "Genius" 
and  "The  Ideal  Tendency,"  especially),  was  a 
"sort  of  refined  and  spiritualized  Emerson,  with 
out  the  grip  and  gristle  of  the  master,  but  very 
pleasing  and  suggestive,"  Mr.  Burroughs  says.  The 
younger  writer  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  home  of 

162 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Brownlee  Brown  in  the  fall  of  1862,  having  been 
much  attracted  to  him  by  the  above-named  essays. 
He  found  him  in  a  field  gathering  turnips.  They 
had  much  interesting  talk,  and  some  correspond 
ence  thereafter.  Mr.  Brown  admitted  that  his  mind 
had  been  fertilized  by  the  Emersonian  pollen,  and 
declared  he  could  write  in  no  other  way. 

Concerning  his  own  imitation  of  Emerson,  Mr. 
Burroughs  says:  — 

It  was  by  no  means  a  conscious  imitation.  Had  I  tried 
to  imitate  him,  probably  the  spurious  character  of  my 
essay  would  have  deceived  no  one.  It  was  one  of  those 
unconscious  imitations  that  so  often  give  an  impression 
of  genuineness.  .  .  .  When  I  began  to  realize  how  deeply 
Emerson  had  set  his  stamp  upon  me,  I  said  to  myself : 
"This  will  never  do.  I  must  resist  this  influence.  If  I 
would  be  a  true  disciple  of  Emerson,  I  must  be  myself 
and  not  another.  I  must  brace  myself  by  his  spirit,  and 
not  go  tricked  out  in  his  manner,  and  his  spirit  was 
'Never  imitate:" 

It  was  this  resolution,  as  he  has  before  told  us,  that 
turned  him  to  writing  on  outdoor  subjects. 

In  rereading  "Expression"  recently,  I  was 
struck,  not  so  much  by  its  Emersonian  manner, 
as  by  its  Bergsonian  ideas.  I  had  heard  Mr. 
Burroughs,  when  he  came  under  the  spell  of  Berg- 
son  in  the  summer  of  1911,  say  that  the  reason 
he  was  so  moved  by  the  French  philosopher  was 

163 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

doubtless  because  he  found  in  him  so  many  of  his 
own  ideas;  and  it  was  with  keen  pleasure  that  I 
came  upon  these  forerunners  of  Bergson  written 
before  Bergson  was  born. 

At  the  time  when  Mr.  Burroughs  was  dropping 
the  Emersonian  manner,  and  while  his  style  was  in 
the  transition  stage,  he  wrote  an  essay  on  "An 
alogy,"  and  sent  it  also  to  the  "Atlantic,"  receiv 
ing  quite  a  damper  on  his  enthusiasm  when  Lowell, 
the  editor,  returned  it.  But  he  sent  it  to  the  old 
"Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  where  it  appeared  in 
1862.  Many  years  later  he  rewrote  it,  and  it  was  ac 
cepted  by  Horace  Scudder,  then  the  "Atlantic's" 
editor;  in  1902,  after  rewriting  it  the  second  time, 
he  published  it  in  "Literary  Values." 

Because  of  the  deep  significance  of  them  at  this 
time  in  the  career  of  Mr.  Burroughs,  I  shall  quote 
the  following  letters  received  by  him  from  David 
A.  Wasson,  a  Unitarian  clergyman  of  Massachu 
setts,  and  a  contributor  to  the  early  numbers  of  the 
"Atlantic."  Their  encouragement,  their  candor, 
their  penetration,  and  their  prescience  entitle  them 
to  a  high  place  in  an  attempt  to  trace  the  evolution 
of  our  author.  One  readily  divines  how  much  such 
appreciation  and  criticism  meant  to  the  youthful 
essayist. 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

GBOVELAND,  MASS.,  May  21,  1860. 
MR.  BURROUGHS,  — 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  Let  me  tell  you  at  the  outset  that  I 
have  for  five  years  suffered  from  a  spinal  hurt,  from 
which  I  am  now  slowly  recovering,  but  am  still  unable  to 
walk  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  to  write  without 
much  pain.  I  have  all  the  will  in  the  world  to  serve 
you,  but,  as  you  will  perceive,  must  use  much  brevity  in 
writing. 

"Expression"  I  do  not  remember,  —  probably  did 
not  read,  —  for  I  read  no  periodical  literature  —  not 
even  the  "Atlantic,"  which  is  the  best  periodical  I  know 
—  unless  my  attention  is  very  especially  called  to  it,  and 
often,  to  tell  the  truth,  do  not  heed  the  call  when  it  is 
given.  Where  I  am  at  present  I  have  not  access  to  back 
numbers  of  the  "Atlantic,"  but  shall  have  soon.  The 
essay  that  you  sent  me  I  read  carefully  twice,  but  unfor 
tunately  left  it  in  Boston,  where  it  reached  me.  I  can 
therefore  only  speak  of  it  generally.  It  certainly  shows 
in  you,  if  my  judgment  may  be  trusted,  unusual  gifts  of 
pure  intellect  —  unusual,  I  mean,  among  scholars  and 
literary  men;  and  the  literary  execution  is  creditable, 
though  by  no  means  of  the  same  grade  with  the  mental 
power  evinced.  You  must  become  a  fine  literary  worker 
to  be  equal  to  the  demands  of  such  an  intellect  as  yours. 
For  the  deeper  the  thought,  the  more  difficult  to  give  it  a 
clear  and  attractive  expression.  You  can  write  so  as  to 
command  attention.  I  am  sure  you  can.  Will  you?  that 
is  the  only  question.  Can  you  work  and  wait  long 
enough?  Have  you  the  requisite  patience  and  persist 
ency?  If  you  have,  there  is  undoubtedly  an  honorable 
future  before  you. 

But  I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  I  think  you  too 
165 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

young  to  have  written  "numerous  essays"  of  the  class 
you  attempt,  or  to  publish  a  book  consisting  of  such. 
No  other  kind  of  writing  requires  such  mental  maturity; 
stories  may  be  written  at  any  age,  though  good  ones  are 
seldom  written  early.  Even  poems  and  works  of  art  have 
been  produced  by  some  Raphael  or  Milton  at  a  com 
paratively  early  season  of  life,  and  have  not  given  shame 
to  the  author  at  a  later  age;  though  this  is  the  exception, 
not  the  rule.  But  the  purely  reflective  essay  belongs 
emphatically  to  maturer  life.  Your  twenty-four  years 
have  evidently  been  worth  more  to  you  than  the  longest 
life  to  most  men;  but  my  judgment  is  that  you  should 
give  your  genius  more  time  yet,  and  should  wait  upon 
it  with  more  labor.  This  is  my  frank  counsel.  I  will  re 
spect  you  so  much  as  to  offer  it  without  disguise.  Let 
me  fortify  it  by  an  example  or  two.  Mr.  Emerson 
published  nothing,  I  think,  until  he  was  past  thirty, 
and  his  brother  Charles,  now  dead,  who  was  consid 
ered  almost  superior  to  him,  maintained  that  it  is  al 
most  a  sin  to  go  into  print  sooner.  Yet  both  these 
had  all  possible  educational  advantages,  and  were 
familiar  with  the  best  books  and  the  best  results  of 
American  culture  from  infancy  almost.  I  myself 
printed  nothing  —  saving  some  poetical  indiscretions 
—  until  I  was  twenty-seven,  and  this  was  only  a  criti 
cism  on  Dr.  Isaac  Barrow  —  not  a  subject,  you  see, 
that  made  great  demands  upon  me.  Two  years  later  an 
article  on  Lord  Bacon,  for  which  I  had  been  indirectly 
preparing  more  than  two  years,  and  directly  at  least 
one;  and  even  then  I  would  say  little  respecting  his 
philosophy,  and  confined  myself  chiefly  to  a  portraiture 
of  his  character  as  a  man.  At  thirty- two  years  of  age  I 
sent  to  press  an  essay  similar  in  character  to  those  I 

166 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

write  now  —  and  am  at  present  a  little  ashamed  of 
it.  I  am  now  thirty-nine  years  old,  and  all  that  I  have 
ever  put  in  print  would  not  make  more  than  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty  or  one  hundred  and  forty  pages  in  the 
"Atlantic."  Upon  reflection,  however,  I  will  say  two 
hundred  pages,  including  pamphlet  publications.  I 
would  have  it  less  rather  than  more.  But  for  this  ill 
ness  it  would  have  been  even  less,  for  this  has  led  me 
to  postpone  larger  enterprises,  which  would  have  gone  to 
press  much  later,  and  prepare  shorter  articles  for  the 
"Atlantic."  Yet  my  literary  interest  began  at  a  very 
early  age. 

In  writing  essays  such  as  it  seems  to  me  you  have  a 
genius  for,  I  require:  — 

1.  That  one  should  get  the  range  —  the  largest  range 
—  of  the  laws  he  sets  forth.    This  is  the  sine  qua  non. 
Every  primary  law  goes  through  heaven    and  earth. 
Go  with  it.  This  is  the  business  and  privilege  of  intellect. 

2.  When  one  comes  to  writing,  let  his  discourse  have 
a  beginning  and  an  end.    Do  not  let  the  end  of  his  essay 
be  merely  the  end  of  his  sheet,  or  the  place  where  he 
took  a  notion  to  stop  writing,  but  let  it  be  necessary. 
Each  paragraph,  too,  should  represent  a  distinct  ad 
vance,  a  clear  step,  in  the  exposition  of  his  thought. 
I  spare  no  labor  in  securing  this,  and  reckon  no  labor 
lost  that  brings  me  toward  this  mark.    I  reckon  my 
work  ill  done  if  a  single  paragraph,  yes,  or  a  single  sen 
tence,  can  be  transposed  without  injuring  the  whole. 

3.  Vivid  expression  must  be  sought,  must  be  labored 
for  unsparingly.  This  you,  from  your  position,  will  find 
it  somewhat  hard  to  attain,  unless  you  have  peculiar 
aptitude  for  it.    Expression  in  the  country  is  far  less 
rivacious  than  in  cities. 

167 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

I  have  spoken  frankly;  now  you  must  decide  for  your 
self.  You  have  mental  power  enough;  if  you  have  acces 
sory  qualities  (which  I  think  you  must  possess),  you 
cannot  fail  to  make  your  mark. 

The  brevity  that  I  promised  you  will  not  find  in  this 
letter,  but  you  will  find  haste  enough  to  make  up  for 
the  lack  of  it. 

If  now,  after  the  foregoing,  you  feel  any  inclination 
to  send  me  the  essay  on  "Analogy"  (capital  subject), 
pray  do  so.  I  will  read  it,  and  if  I  have  anything  to  say 
about  it,  will  speak  as  frankly  as  above. 

I  shall  be  in  this  place  —  Groveland,  Mass.  —  about 
three  weeks;  after  that  in  Worcester  a  short  while. 

Very  truly  yours, 

DAVID  A.  WASSON. 

GROVELAND,  MASS.,  June  18,  1862. 
MB.  BURROUGHS,  — 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  am  sorry  to  have  detained  your 
MS.  so  long,  but  part  of  the  time  I  have  been  away,  and 
during  the  other  portion  of  it,  the  fatigue  that  I  must 
undergo  was  all  that  my  strength  would  bear. 

I  read  your  essay  carefully  in  a  few  days  after  receiv 
ing  it  and  laid  it  aside  for  a  second  perusal.  Now  I 
despair  of  finding  time  for  such  a  second  reading  as  I 
designed,  and  so  must  write  you  at  once  my  impres 
sions  after  a  single  reading. 

The  inference  concerning  your  mind  that  I  draw  from 
your  essay  enhances  the  interest  I  previously  felt  in 
you.  All  that  you  tell  me  of  yourself  has  the  same  effect. 
You  certainly  have  high,  very  high,  mental  power;  and 
the  patience  and  persistency  that  you  must  have  shown 
hitherto  assures  me  that  you  will  in  future  be  equal  to 

168 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

the  demands  of  your  intellect.  As  to  publishing  what 
you  have  now  written,  you  must  judge.  The  main 
question  is  whether  you  will  be  discouraged  by  failure 
of  your  book.  If  not,  publish,  if  you  like;  and  then,  if 
the  public  ignores  your  thought,  gather  up  your  strength 
again  and  write  so  that  they  cannot  ignore  you.  For, 
in  truth,  the  public  does  not  like  to  think;  it  likes  to  be 
amused;  and  conceives  a  sort  of  hatred  against  the 
writer  who  would  force  it  to  the  use  of  its  intellect.  This 
is  invariably  the  case;  it  will  be  so  with  you.  If  the 
public  finds  anything  in  your  work  that  can  be  con 
demned,  it  will  be  but  too  happy  to  pass  sentence;  if 
it  can  make  out  to  think  that  you  are  a  pretender,  it 
will  gladly  do  so;  if  it  can  turn  its  back  upon  you  and  ig 
nore  you,  its  back,  and  nothing  else,  you  will  surely  see. 
And  this  on  account  of  your  merits.  You  really  have 
thoughts.  You  make  combinations  of  your  own.  You 
have  freighted  your  words  out  of  your  own  mental 
experience.  You  do  not  flatter  any  of  the  sects  by  using 
their  cant.  Now,  then,  be  sure  that  you  have  got  to  do 
finished  work,  finished  in  every  minutest  particular, 
for  years,  before  your  claims  will  be  allowed. 

If  you  were  a  pretender,  your  success  in  immediate 
prospect  would  be  more  promising;  the  very  difficulty 
is  that  you  are  not  —  that  you  think  —  that  the  public 
must  read  you  humbly,  confessing  that  you  have  intelli 
gence  beyond  its  own.  I  said  that  the  general  public 
wants  to  be  amused :  I  now  add  that  it  dearly  desires 
to  be  flattered,  or  at  least  allowed  to  flatter  itself. 
Those  people  who  have  no  thoughts  of  their  own  are  the 
very  ones  who  hate  mortally  to  admit  to  themselves 
that  any  intelligence  in  the  world  is  superior  to  their 
own.  A  noble  nature  is  indeed  never  so  delighted  as 

169 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

when  it  finds  something  that  may  be  lawfully  rever 
enced;  but  all  the  ignoble  keep  up  their  self-compla 
cence  by  shutting  their  eyes  to  all  superiority. 

I  state  the  case  strongly,  as  you  will  feel  it  bye  and 
bye.  Mind,  I  am  not  a  disappointed  man;  and  have 
met  as  generous  appreciation  as  I  ought  to  wish.  I  am 
not  misanthropic,  nor  in  the  least  soured.  I  say  all  this, 
not  against  the  public,  but  for  you. 

Now,  then,  as  to  the  essay.  It  is  rich  in  thought. 
Everywhere  are  the  traces  of  a  penetrating  and  sincere 
intellect.  Much  of  the  expression  is  also  good.  The 
faults  of  it,  me  judice,  are  as  follows :  The  introduction 
I  think  too  long.  I  should  nearly  throw  away  the  first 
five  pages.  Your  true  beginning  I  think  to  be  near  the 
bottom  of  the  sixth  page,  though  the  island  in  the  middle 
paragraph  of  that  page  is  too  fine  to  be  lost.  From  the 
sixth  to  about  the  twentieth  I  read  with  hearty  pleasure. 
Then  begin  subordinate  essays  in  illustration  of  your 
main  theme.  These  are  good  in  themselves,  but  their  sub 
ordination  is  a  'little  obscured.  I  think  careless  readers 
—  and  most  of  your  readers,  be  sure,  will  be  careless  — 
will  fail  to  perceive  the  connection.  You  are  younger 
than  I,  and  will  hope  more  from  your  readers;  but  I  find 
even  superior  men  slow,  slow,  SLOW  to  understand  — 
missing  your  point  so  often!  I  think  the  relationship 
must  be  brought  out  more  strongly,  and  some  very  good 
sentences  must  be  thrown  out  because  they  are  more 
related  to  the  subordinate  than  the  commanding  sub 
ject.  This  is  about  all  that  I  have  to  say.  Sometimes 
your  sentences  are  a  little  heavy,  but  you  will  find, 
little  by  little,  happier  terms  of  expression.  I  do  not  in 
the  least  believe  that  you  cannot  in  time  write  as  well  as 
I.  What  I  have  done  to  earn  expression  I  know  better 

170 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

than  you!  The  crudities  that  I  have  outgrown  or  out- 
labored,  I  also  know. 

You  must  be  a  little  less  careless  about  your  spelling, 
simply  because  these  slips  will  discredit  your  thought  in 
the  eyes  of  superficial  critics. 

You  understand,  of  course,  that  I  speak  above  of  the 
general  public  —  not  of  the  finer  natures,  who  will  wel 
come  you  with  warm  hands. 

I  fear  that  the  results  of  my  reading  will  not  corre 
spond  to  your  wishes,  and  that  it  was  hardly  worth 
your  while  to  send  me  your  MS.  But  I  am  obliged  to  you 
for  informing  me  of  your  existence,  for  I  augur  good 
for  my  country  from  the  discovery  of  every  such  intelli 
gence  as  yours,  and  I  pledge  to  you  my  warm  interest 
and  regard. 

Very  cordially  yours, 

DAVID  A.  WASSON. 

WORCESTER,  Sept.  29,  1862. 
MY  DEAR  MB.  BURROUGHS,  — 

To  the  medicine  proposition  I  say,  Yes.  A  man  of 
your  tastes  and  mental  vigor  should  be  able  to  do  some 
clean  work  in  that  profession.  I  know  not  of  any  other 
established  profession  that  allows  a  larger  scope  of  mind 
than  this.  There  is  some  danger  of  materialism,  but 
this  you  have  already  weaponed  yourself  against,  and 
the  scientific  studies  that  come  in  the  line  of  the  pro 
fession  will  furnish  material  for  thought  and  expression 
which  I  am  sure  you  will  know  well  how  to  use. 

I  am  glad  if  my  suggestions  about  your  essay  proved 
of  some  service  to  you.  There  is  thought  and  state 
ment  in  it  which  will  certainly  one  day  come  to  a  mar 
ket.  The  book,  too,  all  in  good  season.  Life  for  you  is 

171 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

very  long,  and  you  can  take  your  time.  Take  it  by  all 
means.   Give  yourself  large  leisure  to  do  your  best. 

I  am  about  setting  up  my  household  gods  in  Worces 
ter.  This  makes  me  in  much  haste,  and  therefore  with 
out  another  word  I  must  say  that  I  shall  always  be  glad 
to  hear  from  you,  and  that  I  am  always  truly  your 
friend. 

D.  A.  WASSON. 

Of  the  early  nature  papers  which  Mr.  Burroughs 
wrote  for  the  New  York  "Leader,"  and  which 
were  grouped  under  the  general  title,  "From  the 
Back  Country,"  there  were  five  or  six  in  number, 
of  two  or  three  columns  each.  One  on  "Butter- 
Making,  "  of  which  I  will  quote  the  opening  pas 
sage,  fairly  makes  the  mouth  water:  — 

With  green  grass  comes  golden  butter.  With  the 
bobolinks  and  the  swallows,  with  singing  groves,  and 
musical  winds,  with  June,  —  ah,  yes !  with  tender,  suc 
culent,  gorgeous  June,  —  all  things  are  blessed.  The 
dairyman's  heart  rejoices,  and  the  butter  tray  with  its 
virgin  treasure  becomes  a  sight  to  behold.  There  lie 
the  rich  masses,  fold  upon  fold,  leaf  upon  leaf,  fresh, 
sweet,  and  odorous,  just  as  the  ladle  of  the  dairymaid 
dipped  it  from  the  churn,  sweating  great  drops  of  butter 
milk,  and  looking  like  some  rare  and  precious  ore.  The 
cool  spring  water  is  the  only  clarifier  needed  to  remove 
all  dross  and  impurities  and  bring  out  all  the  virtues 
and  beauties  of  this  cream-evolved  element.  How  firm 
and  bright  it  becomes,  how  delicious  the  odor  it  emits! 
what  vegetarian  ever  found  it  in  his  heart,  or  his  palate 

172 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

either,  to  repudiate  butter?  The  essence  of  clover  and 
grass  and  dandelions  and  beechen  woods  is  here.  How 
wonderful  the  chemistry  that  from  elements  so  com 
mon  and  near  at  hand  produces  a  result  so  beautiful 
and  useful !  Eureka !  Is  not  this  the  alchemy  that  turns 
into  gold  the  commonest  substances?  How  can  trans 
formation  be  more  perfect? 

During  the  years  of  this  early  essay-writing,  Mr. 
Burroughs  was  teaching  country  schools  in  the  fall 
and  winter,  and  working  on  the  home  farm  in  sum 
mer;  at  the  same  time  he  was  reading  serious  books 
and  preparing  himself  for  whatever  was  in  store  for 
him.  He  read  medicine  for  only  three  months,  in 
the  fall  of  1862,  and  then  resumed  teaching.  His 
first  magazine  article  about  the  birds  was  written 
in  the  summer  or  fall  of  1863,  and  appeared  in  the 
"Atlantic"  in  the  spring  of  1865.  He  learned  from 
a  friend  to  whom  Mr.  Sanborn  had  written  that 
the  article  had  pleased  Emerson. 

It  was  in  1864,  while  in  the  Currency  Bureau  in 
Washington,  that  he  wrote  the  essays  which  make 
up  his  first  nature  book,  "  Wake-Robin."  His.  first 
book,  however,  was  not  a  nature  book,  but  was 
"  Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person." 
It  was  published  in  1867,  preceding  "Wake- 
Robin  "  by  four  years.  It  has  long  been  out  of 
print,  and  is  less  known  than  his  extended,  riper 
work,  "  Whitman,  A  Study,"  written  in  1896. 

173 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

A  record  of  the  early  writings  of  Mr.  Burroughf 
would  not  be  complete  without  considering  also 
his  ventures  into  the  field  of  poetry.  In  the  summer 
of  1860  he  wrote  and  printed  his  first  verses  (with 
the  exception  of  some  still  earlier  ones  written 
in  1856  to  the  sweetheart  who  became  his  wife), 
which  were  addressed  to  his  friend  and  comrade 
E.  M.  Allen,  subsequently  the  husband  of  Eliza 
beth  Akers,  the  author  of  "Backward,  turn  back 
ward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight."  The  lines  to  E.  M. 
A.  were  printed  in  the  "  Saturday  Press."  Because 
they  are  the  first  of  our  author's  verses  to  appear 
in  print,  I  quote  them  here:  — 

TO  E.  M.  A. 

A  change  has  come  over  nature 

Since  you  and  June  were  here; 
The  sun  has  turned  to  the  southward 

Adown  the  steps  of  the  year. 

The  grass  is  ripe  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  mowers  swing  in  rhyme; 

The  grain  so  green  on  the  hillside 
Is  in  its  golden  prime. 

No  more  the  breath  of  the  clover 

Is  borne  on  every  breeze, 
No  more  the  eye  of  the  daisy 

Is  bright  on  meadow  leas. 

The  bobolink  and  the  swallow 
Have  left  for  other  clime  — 
174 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

They  mind  the  sun  when  he  beckons 
And  go  with  summer's  prime. 

Buttercups  that  shone  in  the  meadow 

Like  rifts  of  golden  snow, 
They,  too,  have  melted  and  vanished 

Beneath  the  summer's  glow. 

Still  at  evenfall  in  the  upland 

The  vesper  sparrow  sings, 
And  the  brooklet  in  the  pasture 

Still  waves  its  glassy  rings. 

And  the  lake  of  fog  to  the  southward 

With  surges  white  as  snow  — 
Still  at  morn  away  in  the  distance 

I  see  it  ebb  and  flow. 

But  a  change  has  come  over  nature, 
The  youth  of  the  year  has  gone; 

A  grace  from  the  wood  has  departed, 
And  a  freshness  from  the  dawn. 

Another  poem,  "  Loss  and  Gain,"  was  printed 
in  the  New  York  "Independent"  about  the  same 
time. 

LOSS  AND  GAIN 

The  ship  that  drops  behind  the  rim 
Of  sea  and  sky,  so  pale  and  dim, 

Still  sails  the  seas 

With  favored  breeze, 
Where  other  waves  chant  ocean's  hymn. 

The  wave  that  left  this  shore  so  wide, 
And  led  away  the  ebbing  tide, 
175 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Is  with  its  host 
On  fairer  coast, 
Bedecked  and  plumed  in  all  its  pride. 

The  grub  I  found  encased  in  clay 
When  next  I  came  had  slipped  away 

On  golden  wing, 

With  birds  that  sing, 
To  mount  and  soar  in  sunny  day. 

No  thought  or  hope  can  e'er  be  lost  — 
The  spring  will  come  in  spite  of  frost. 

Go  crop  the  branch 

Of  maple  stanch, 
The  root  will  gain  what  you  exhaust. 

The  man  is  formed  as  ground  he  tills  — 
Decay  and  death  lie  'neath  his  sills. 

The  storm  that  beats, 

And  solar  heats, 
Have  helped  to  form  whereon  he  builds. 

Successive  crops  that  lived  and  grew, 
And  drank  the  air,  the  light,  the  dew, 

And  then  deceased, 

His  soil  increased 
In  strength,  and  depth,  and  richness,  too. 

From  slow  decay  the  ages  grow, 

From  blood  and  crime  the  centuries  blow. 

What  disappears 

Beneath  the  years, 
Will  mount  again  as  grain  we  sow. 

These    rather   commonplace    verses,    the    first 
showing  his  love  for  comrades,  the  others  his  phil- 

176 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

osophical  bent,  were  the  forerunners  of  that  poem 
of  Mr.  Burroughs's  —  "Waiting"  —  which  has 
become  a  household  treasure,  often  without  the 
ones  wb3  cherish  it  knowing  its  source.  "  Waiting" 
was  written  in  the  fall  of  1862.  In  response  to  my 
inquiry  as  to  its  genesis,  its  author  said:  — 

I  was  reading  medicine  in  the  office  of  a  country 
doctor  at  the  time  and  was  in  a  rather  gloomy  and  dis 
couraged  state  of  mind.  My  outlook  upon  life  was  any 
thing  but  encouraging.  I  was  poor.  I  had  no  certain 
means  of  livelihood.  I  had  married  five  years  before, 
and,  at  a  venture,  I  had  turned  to  medicine  as  a  likely 
solution  of  my  life's  problems.  The  Civil  War  was 
raging  and  that,  too,  disturbed  me.  It  sounded  a  call  of 
duty  which  increased  my  perturbations;  yet  something 
must  have  said  to  me,  "Courage!  all  will  yet  be  well. 
You  are  bound  to  have  your  own,  whatever  happens." 
Doubtless  this  feeling  had  been  nurtured  in  me  by  the 
brave  words  of  Emerson.  At  any  rate,  there  in  a  little 
dingy  back  room  of  Dr.  Hull's  office,  I  paused  in  my 
study  of  anatomy  and  wrote  "Waiting."  I  had  at  that 
time  had  some  literary  correspondence  with  David  A. 
Wasson  whose  essays  in  the  "Atlantic"  I  had  read  with 
deep  interest.  I  sent  him  a  copy  of  the  poem.  He  spoke 
of  it  as  a  vigorous  piece  of  work,  but  seemed  to  see  no 
special  merit  in  it.  I  then  sent  it  to  "Knickerbocker's 
Magazine,"  where  it  was  printed,  in  December,  I  think, 
in  1862.  It  attracted  no  attention,  and  was  almost 
forgotten  by  me  till  many  years  afterwards  when  it 
appeared  in  Whittier's  "Songs  of  Three  Centuries." 
This  indorsement  by  Whittier  gave  it  vogue.  It  began 

177 


OUK  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

to  be  copied  by  newspapers  and  religious  journals,  and 
it  has  been  traveling  on  the  wings  of  public  print  ever 
since.  I  do  not  think  it  has  any  great  poetic  merit.  The 
secret  of  its  success  is  its  serious  religious  strain,  or 
what  people  interpret  as  such.  It  embodies  a  very  com 
fortable  optimistic  philosophy  which  it  chants  in  a 
solemn,  psalm-like  voice.  Its  sincerity  carries  convic 
tion.  It  voices  absolute  faith  and  trust  in  what,  in  the 
language  of  our  fathers,  would  be  called  the  ways  of 
God  with  man.  I  have  often  told  persons,  when  they 
have  questioned  me  about  the  poem,  that  I  came  of  the 
Old  School  Baptist  stock,  and  that  these  verses  show 
what  form  the  old  Calvinistic  doctrine  took  in  me. 

Let  me  quote  here  the  letter  which  Mr.  Wasson 
wrote  to  the  author  of  "Waiting,"  on  receiving 
the  first  autograph  copy  of  it  ever  written:  — 

WORCESTER,  Dec.  22,  1862. 
MB.  BURROUGHS,  — 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times 
for  having  neglected  so  long  to  acknowledge  the  letter 
containing  your  vigorous  verses.  Excess  of  work,  and 
then  a  dash  of  illness  consequent  upon  this  excess,  must 
be  my  excuse  —  by  your  kind  allowance. 

The  verses  are  vigorous  and  flowing,  good  in  senti 
ment,  and  certainly  worthy  of  being  sent  to  "  some 
paper,"  if  you  like  to  print  them.  On  the  other  hand, 
they  do  not  indicate  to  me  that  you  have  any  special 
call  to  write  verse.  A  man  of  your  ability  and  fineness 
of  structure  must  necessarily  be  enough  of  a  poet  not 
to  fail  altogether  in  use  of  the  poetical  form.  But  all 
that  I  know  of  you  indicates  a  predominance  of  reflec- 

178 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OP  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

live  intellect  —  a  habit  of  mind  quite  foreign  from  the 
lyrical.  I  think  it  may  be  very  good  practice  to  com 
pose  in  verse,  as  it  exercises  you  in  terse  and  rhythmical 
expression;  but  I  question  whether  your  vocation  lies 
in  that  direction. 

After  all,  you  must  not  let  anything  which  I,  or  any 
one,  may  say  stand  in  your  way,  if  you  feel  any  clear 
leading  of  your  genius  in  a  given  direction.  What  I 
have  said  is  designed  to  guard  you  against  an  expendi 
ture  of  power  and  hope  in  directions  that  may  yield 
you  but  a  partial  harvest,  when  the  same  ought  to 
be  sown  on  more  fruitful  fields.  I  think  you  have  un 
usual  reflective  power;  and  I  am  sure  that  hi  time 
you  will  find  time  and  occasion  for  its  exercise,  and 
will  accomplish  some  honorable  tasks. 
Very  truly  yours, 

D.  A.  WASSON. 

It  maybe  fancy  on  my  part,  but  I  have  a  feeling 
that,  all  unconsciously  to  Mr.  Burroughs,  a  sen 
tence  or  two  in  Mr.  Wasson's  letter  of  September 
29,  1862,  had  something  to  do  with  inspiring  the 
mood  of  trustfulness  and  the  attitude  of  waiting  in 
serenity,  which  gave  birth  to  this  poem:  — 

.  .  .  The  book,  too,  all  in  good  season.  Life  for  you 
is  very  long,  and  you  can  take  your  time.  Take  it  by 
all  means.  Give  yourself  large  leisure  to  do  your 
best. 

Whether  or  not  this  is  so,  I  am  sure  the  sympathy 
and  understanding  of  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Wasson 

179 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

was  a  godsend  to  our  struggling  writer,  and  was  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  instances  in  his  life  of  "his 
own"  coming  to  him. 

"Waiting"  seems  to  have  gone  all  over  the 
world.  It  has  been  several  times  set  to  music,  and 
its  authorship  has  even  been  claimed  by  others. 
It  has  been  parodied,  more's  the  pity;  and  spurious 
stanzas  have  occasionally  been  appended  to  it; 
while  an  inferior  stanza,  which  the  author  dropped 
years  ago,  is  from  time  to  time  resurrected  by  cer 
tain  insistent  ones.  Originally,  it  had  seven  stan 
zas  ;  the  sixth,  discarded  by  its  author,  ran  as  fol 
lows: — 

Yon  flowret,  nodding  in  the  wind, 

Is  ready  plighted  to  the  bee; 
And,  maiden,  why  that  look  unkind? 

For,  lo!  thy  lover  seeketh  thee. 

This  stanza  is  a  detraction  from  the  poem  as  we 
know  it,  and  assuredly  its  author  has  a  right  to 
drop  it.  Concerning  the  fifth  stanza,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  says  he  has  never  liked  it,  and  has  often 
substituted  one  which  he  wrote  a  few  years  ago. 
The  stanza  he  would  reject  is  — 

The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 

The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  heights; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delights. 

180 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

The  one  he  would  offer  instead  — 

The  law  of  love  binds  every  heart, 

And  knits  it  to  its  utmost  kin, 
Nor  can  our  lives  flow  long  apart 

From  souls  our  secret  souls  would  win. 

And  yet  he  is  not  satisfied  with  this;  he  says  it  is 
too  subtle  and  lacks  the  large,  simple  imagery  of 
the  original  lines. 

The  legion  who  cherish  this  poem  in  their  hearts 
are  justly  incensed  whenever  they  come  across  a 
copy  of  it  to  which  some  one,  a  few  years  ago,  had 
the  effrontery  to  add  this  inane  stanza:  — 

Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Whate'er  the  storms  of  life  may  be, 

Faith  guides  me  up  to  heaven's  gate, 
And  love  will  bring  my  own  to  me. 

'  One  of  Mr.  Burroughs  Js  friends  (Joel  Benton), 
himself  a  poet,  in  an  article  tracing  the  vicissitudes 
of  this  poem,  shows  pardonable  indignation  at  the 
"impudence  and  hardihood  of  the  unmannered 
meddler"  who  tacked  on  the  "heaven's  gate" 
stanza,  and  adds:  — 

The  lyric  as  Burroughs  wrote  it  embodies  a  motive, 
or  concept,  that  has  scarcely  been  surpassed  for  amen 
ability  to  poetic  treatment,  and  for  touching  and  im 
pressive  point.  Its  partly  elusive  outlines  add  to  its 
charm.  Its  balance  between  hint  and  affirmation;  its 
faith  in  universal  forces,  and  its  tender  yet  virile  expres- 

181 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

sion,  are  all  shining  qualities,  apparent  to  the  critical, 
and  hypnotic  to  the  general,  reader.  There  is  noth 
ing  in  it  that  need  even  stop  at  "heaven's  gate."  It 
permits  the  deserving  reader  by  happy  instinct  to 
go  through  that  portal  —  without  waiting  outside  to 
parade  his  sect  mark.  But  the  force  of  the  poem  and 
catholicity  of  its  sanctions  are  either  utterly  destroyed 
or  ridiculously  enfeebled,  by  capping  it  with  a  sectarian 
and  narrowly  interpreted  climax. 

Although  the  poem  is  so  well  known,  I  shall 
quote  it  here  in  the  form  preferred  by  its  author:  — 

WAITING 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  nor  tide,  nor  sea; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo!  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 
I  stand  amid  th'  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 

The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me; 
No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 

Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  hath  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 
182 


EARLY  WRITINGS  OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  heights; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delights. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky, 

The  tidal  wave  comes  to  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 


A  WINTER   DAY   AT  SLABSIDES 

COME  and  go  to  Slabsides  for  over  Sunday  — 
I  think  we  can  keep  warm.   We  will  have  an 
old-fashioned  time;  I  will  roast  a  duck  in  the  pot; 
it  will  be  great  fun." 

This  invitation  came  from  Mr.  Burroughs  in 
1911  to  friends  who  proposed  to  call  on  him  early 
in  December.  Riverby  was  closed  for  the  season, 
its  occupants  tarrying  in  Poughkeepsie,  but,  ever 
ready  for  an  adventure,  the  Sage  of  Slabsides  pro 
posed  a  winter  picnic  at  his  cabin  in  the  hills. 

A  ride  of  some  two  hours  from  New  York  brings 
us  to  West  Park,  where  our  host  awaits  us.  A 
stranger,  glancing  at  his  white  hair  and  beard, 
might  credit  his  seventy-five  years,  but  not  when 
looking  at  his  ruddy  face  with  the  keen,  bright  eyes, 
or  at  his  alert,  vigorous  movements. 

Together  with  blankets  and  a  market-basket  of 
provisions  we  are  stowed  away  in  a  wagon  and 
driven  up  the  steep,  winding  way;  at  first  along  a 
country  road,  then  into  a  wood's  road  with  huge 
Silurian  rocks  cropping  out  everywhere,  showing 
here  and  there  seams  of  quartz  and  patches  of 
moss  and  ferns. 

184 


A  WINTER  DAY  AT  SLABSIDES 

''In  there,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs,  pointing  to  an 
obscure  path,  "I  had  a  partridge  for  a  neighbor. 
She  had  a  nest  there.  I  went  to  see  her  every  day 
till  she  became  uneasy  about  it,  and  let  me  know  I 
was  no  longer  welcome." 

"  Yonder,"  he  continued,  indicating  a  range  of 
wooded  hills  against  the  wintry  sky,  "  is  the  classic 
region  of  *  Popple  Town  Hill/  and  over  there  is 
Tang  Yang.'" 

Some  friendly  spirit  has  preceded  us  to  the  cabin; 
a  fire  is  burning  in  the  great  stone  fireplace,  and 
mattresses  and  bedding  are  exposed  to  the  heat. 
Moving  these  away,  the  host  makes  room  for  us 
near  the  hearth.  He  piles  on  the  wood,  and  we  are 
soon  permeated  by  the  warmth  of  the  fire  and  of 
the  unostentatious  hospitality  of  Slabsides. 

How  good  it  is  to  be  here!  The  city,  with  its 
rush  and  roar  and  complexities,  seems  far  away. 
How  satisfying  it  is  to  strip  off  the  husks  and 
get  at  the  kernel  of  things!  There  is  more  chance 
for  high  thinking  when  one  is  big  enough  to  have 
plain  living.  How  we  surround  ourselves  with 
non-essentials,  how  we  are  dominated  with  the 
"mania  of  owning  things"  —  one  feels  all  this 
afresh  in  looking  around  at  this  simple,  well-built 
cabin  with  its  few  needful  things  close  at  hand,  and 
with  life  reduced  to  the  simplest  terms.  One  sees 
here  exemplified  the  creed  Mr.  Burroughs  outlined 

185 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

several  years  ago  in  his  essay  "  An  Outlook  upon 
Life":  — 

I  am  bound  to  praise  the  simple  life,  because  I  have 
lived  it  and  found  it  good.  ...  I  love  a  small  house,  plain 
clothes,  simple  living.  Many  persons  know  the  luxury 
of  a  skin  bath  —  a  plunge  in  the  pool  or  the  wave  un 
hampered  by  clothing.  That  is  the  simple  life  —  direct 
and  immediate  contact  with  things,  life  with  the  false 
wrappings  torn  away  —  the  fine  house,  the  fine  equi 
page,  the  expensive  habits,  all  cut  off.  How  free  one  feels, 
how  good  the  elements  taste,  how  close  one  gets  to  them, 
how  they  fit  one's  body  and  one's  soul !  To  see  the  fire 
that  warms  you,  or  better  yet,  to  cut  the  wood  that 
feeds  the  fire  that  warms  you;  to  see  the  spring  where 
the  water  bubbles  up  that  slakes  your  thirst,  and  to  dip 
your  pail  into  it;  to  see  the  beams  that  are  the  stay  of 
your  four  walls,  and  the  timbers  that  uphold  the  roof 
that  shelters  you;  to  be  in  direct  and  personal  contact 
with  the  sources  of  your  material  life;  to  want  no  extras, 
no  shields;  to  find  the  universal  elements  enough;  to  find 
the  air  and  the  water  exhilarating;  to  be  refreshed  by  a 
morning  walk  or  an  evening  saunter;  to  find  a  quest  of 
wild  berries  more  satisfying  than  a  gift  of  tropic  fruit; 
to  be  thrilled  by  the  stars  at  night;  to  be  elated  over  a 
bird's  nest,  or  over  a  wild  flower  in  spring  —  these  are 
some  of  the  rewards  of  the  simple  life. 

The  two  men  were  soon  talking  companionably. 
When  persons  of  wide  reading  and  reflection,  and  of 
philosophic  bent,  who  have  lived  long  and  been 
mellowed  by  life,  come  together,  the  interchange 

186 


A  WINTER  DAY  AT  SLABSIDES 

of  thought  is  bound  to  be  valuable;  things  are  so 
well  said,  so  inevitably  said,  that  the  listener  thinks 
he  cannot  forget  the  manner  of  saying;  but 
thoughts  crowd  thick  and  fast,  comments  on  men 
and  measures,  on  books  and  events,  are  numerous 
and  varied,  but  hard  to  recapture.  The  logs  ignite, 
sending  out  their  cheering  heat,  the  coals  glow,  the 
sparks  fly  upward,  warmth  and  radiance  envelop 
us;  but  an  attempt  to  warm  the  reader  by  the  glow 
of  that  fireside  talk  is  almost  as  futile  as  an  effort 
to  dispel  to-day's  cold  by  the  fire  of  yesterday. 

A  few  deserted  cottages  perched  on  the  rocks 
near  by  show  us  where  the  summer  neighbors  of  our 
host  live,  but  at  all  seasons  his  wild  neighbors  are 
the  ones  he  hobnobs  with  the  most;  while  his  in 
door  companions  are  Montaigne,  Sainte-Beuve, 
Carlyle,  Arnold,  Wordsworth,  Darwin,  Huxley, 
Emerson,  Whitman,  Bergson,  and  many  others, 
ancient  and  modern. 

"  I  've  been  rereading  Emerson's  essay  on 
'Immortality'  lately,  evenings  in  my  study  down 
there  by  the  river,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs.  "  I  had 
forgotten  it  was  so  noble  and  fine  —  he  makes  much 
of  the  idea  of  permanence." 

In  this  connection  he  spoke  of  John  Fiske  and  his 
contributions  to  literature,  telling  of  the  surprise 
he  felt  on  first  meeting  Fiske  at  Harvard,  to  see 
the  look  of  tl^e  bon  vivant  in  one  in  whom  the  in- 

187 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

tellectual  and  the  spiritual  were  so  prominent. 
Laughing,  he  recalled  the  amusement  of  the  col 
lege  boys  at  Fiske's  comical  efforts  to  discover  a 
piece  of  chalk  dropped  during  his  lecture  on 
"  Immortality."  Standing  on  the  hearth,  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  he  recited  some  humorous 
lines  which  he  had  written  concerning  the  epi 
sode. 

Reverting  to  the  question  of  immortality  in  a 
serious  vein,  he  summed  up  the  debated  question 
much  as  he  has  done  in  one  of  his  essays,  —  that  it 
has  been  good  to  be  here,  and  will  be  good  to  go 
hence;  that  we  know  not  whence  we  come,  nor 
whither  we  go;  were  not  consulted  as  to  our  com 
ing,  and  shall  not  be  as  to  our  going;  but  that  it 
is  all  good;  all  for  "  the  glory  of  God;"  though  we 
must  use  this  phrase  in  a  larger  sense  than  the 
cramped  interpretation  of  the  theologian.  All 
the  teeming  life  of  the  globe,  the  millions  on  mil 
lions  in  the  microscopic  world,  and  the  millions  on 
millions  of  creatures  that  can  be  seen  by  the  naked 
eye  —  those  who  have  been  swept  away,  those 
here  now,  those  who  will  come  after  —  all  appear 
ing  in  their  appointed  time  and  place,  playing 
their  parts  and  vanishing,  and  to  the  old  question 
"Why?"  we  may  as  well  answer,  "For  the  glory 
of  God";  if  we  will  only  conceive  a  big  enough 
glory,  and  a  big  enough  God.  His  utter  trust  in 

188 


A  WINTER  DAY  AT  SLABSIDES 

things  as  they  are  seemed  a  living  embodiment  of 
that  sublime  line  in  "  Waiting"  — 

"  I  stand  amid  the  Eternal  ways"; 

and,  thus  standing,  he  is  content  to  let  the  powers 
that  be  have  their  way  with  him. 

"  To  all  these  mysteries  I  fall  back  upon  the  last 
words  I  heard  Whitman  say,  shortly  before  the 
end  —  commonplace  words,  but  they  sum  it  up : 
'It's  all  right,  John,  it's  all  right';  but  Whitman 
had  the  active,  sustaining  faith  in  immortality  — 

'  I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time.'" 

As  the  afternoon  wanes,  Mr.  Burroughs  hangs 
the  kettle  on  the  crane,  broils  the  chops,  and  with 
a  little  help  from  one  of  the  guests,  soon  has  supper 
on  the  table,  a  discussion  of  Bergson's  philosophy 
suffering  only  occasional  interruptions;  such  as, 
"  Where  have  those  women  [summer  occupants  of 
Slabsides]  put  my  holder?"  or,  "  See  if  there  is  n't 
some  salt  in  the  cupboard." 

"  There !  I  forgot  to  bring  up  eggs  for  breakfast, 
but  here  are  other  things,"  he  mutters  as  he  rum 
mages  in  his  market-basket.  "That  memory  of 
mine  is  pretty  tricky;  sometimes  I  can't  remember 
things  any  better  than  I  can  find  them  when  they 
a^e  right  under  my  nose.  I've  just  found  a  line 
Lorn  Emerson  that  I've  been  hunting  for  two 

189 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

days  —  'The  worm  striving  to  be  man.'  I  looked 
my  Emerson  through  and  through,  and  no  worm; 
then  I  found  in  Joel  Benton's  Concordance  of 
Emerson  that  the  line  was  in  'May-Day';  he 
even  cited  the  page,  but  my  Emerson  had  no 
printing  on  that  page.  I  searched  all  through 
'May-Day,'  and  still  no  worm;  I  looked  again 
with  no  better  success,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  when  I  spied  the  worm  —  it  almost 
escaped  me  — " 

"It  must  have  turned,  did  n't  it?" 

"  Yes,  the  worm  surely  turned,  or  I  never  should 
have  seen  it,"  he  confessed. 

The  feminine  member  of  the  trio  wields  the 
dish-mop  while  the  host  dries  the  dishes,  and  the 
Dreamer  before  the  fire  luxuriates  in  the  thought 
that  his  help  is  not  needed. 

The  talk  on  philosophy  and  religion  does  not 
make  the  host  forget  to  warm  sheets  and  blankets 
and  put  hot  bricks  in  the  beds  to  insure  against 
the  fast-gathering  cold. 

The  firelight  flickers  on  the  bark-covered  raft 
ers,  lighting  up  the  yellow-birch  partition  between 
living-room  and  bedroom  downstairs,  and  plays 
upon  the  rustic  stairway  that  leads  to  the  two 
rooms  overhead,  as  we  sit  before  the  hearth  in 
quiet  talk.  Outside  the  moonlight  floods  the  great 
open  space  around  the  cabin,  revealing  outlines  of 

190 


A  WINTER  DAY  AT  SLABSIDES 

the  rocky  inclosure.  No  sounds  in  all  that  stillness 
without,  and  within  only  the  low  voices  of  the 
friends,  and  the  singing  logs. 

Mr.  Burroughs  tells  of  his  visit,  in  October,  to 
the  graves  of  his  maternal  grandparents:  — 

"  They  died  in  1854,  my  first  season  away  from 
home,  and  there  they  have  lain  for  fifty-seven 
years,  and  I  had  never  been  to  their  graves !  I  'm 
glad  I  went;  it  made  them  live  again  for  me.  How 
plainly  I  could  see  the  little  man  in  his  blue  coat 
with  brass  buttons,  with  his  decidedly  Irish  fea 
tures!  And  Grandmother,  a  stout  woman,  with 
quaint,  homely  ways.  The  moss  is  on  their  grave 
stones  now,  and  two  evergreen  trees  wax  strong 
above  them.  I  found  an  indigo-bird  had  built  her 
nest  above  their  graves.  I  broke  off  the  branch  and 
brought  it  home." 

"There!  get  up  and  use  that  water  before  it 
freezes  over,"  the  host  calls  out  the  next  morning, 
as,  mounting  the  stairs,  he  places  a  pitcher  of  hot 
water  by  the  door.  It  is  bitter  cold,  one's  fingers 
ache,  and  one  wonders  if,  after  all,  it  is  so  much  fun 
to  live  in  a  cabin  in  the  woods  in  the  dead  of  win 
ter.  But  a  crackling  fire  below  and  savory  smells 
of  bacon  and  coffee  reconcile  one,  and  the  day 
begins  right  merrily. 

And  what  a  dinner  the  author  sets  before  us! 
191 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

what  fun  to  see  him  prepare  it,  discussing  meant 
while  the  glory  that  was  Greece  and  the  gran 
deur  that  was  Rome,  recounting  anecdotes  of  boy 
hood,  touching  on  politics  and  religion,  on  current 
events,  on  conflicting  views  of  the  vitalists  and  the 
chemico-physicists,  on  this  and  on  that,  but  never 
to  the  detriment  of  his  duck.  It  is  true  he  did 
serenely  fold  his  hands  and  wait,  between  times. 
Then  what  an  event  to  see  him  lift  the  smoking 
cover  and  try  the  bird  with  a  fork  —  "to  see  if  the 
duck  is  relenting,"  he  explains.  At  a  certain  time 
he  arises  from  a  grave  psychological  discussion  to 
rake  out  hollow  places  in  the  coals  where  he  buries 
potatoes  and  onions. 

"The  baking  of  an  onion,"  he  declares,  "takes 
all  the  conceit  out  of  him.  He  is  sweet  and  humble 
after  his  baptism  of  fire."  Then  the  talk  soar,? 
above  ducks  and  onions,  until  he  gives  one  of  the 
idlers  permission  to  prepare  the  salad  and  lay  the 
table. 

For  a  dinner  to  remember  all  one's  days,  com 
mend  me  to  a  thoroughly  relented  duck;  a  mealy, 
ash-baked  potato;  an  onion  (yea,  several  of  them) 
devoid  of  conceit,  and  well  buttered  and  salted; 
and  a  salad  of  Slabsides  celery  and  lettuce;  with 
Riverby  apples  and  pears,  and  beechnuts  to  com 
plete  the  feast  —  beechnuts  gathered  in  October 
up  in  the  Catskills,  gathered  one  by  one  as  the 

192 


A  WINTER  DAY  AT  SLABSIDES 

chipmunk  gathers  them,  by  the  "Laird  of  Wood- 
chuck  Lodge,"  as  he  is  called  on  his  native  heath, 
though  he  is  one  and  the  same  with  the  master 
of  Slabsides. 

We  hear  no  sounds  all  the  day  outside  the  cabin 
but  the  merry  calls  of  chickadees,  until  in  mid- 
afternoon  an  unwelcome  "Halloa!"  tells  us  the 
wagon  is  come  to  take  us  down  to  Riverby.  Re 
luctantly  the  fire  is  extinguished,  and  the  wide, 
hospitable  door  of  Slabsides  closes  behind  us. 

Riverby,  "the  house  that  Jack  built,"  as  the 
builder  boasted,  is  a  house  interesting  and  indi 
vidual,  though  conforming  somewhat  to  the  con 
ventions  of  the  time  when  it  was  built  (1874).  It 
is  as  immaculate  within  as  its  presiding  genius 
can  make  it,  presenting  a  sharp  contrast  to  the 
easy-going  housekeeping  of  the  mountain  cabin. 

We  tarry  a  few  minutes  in  the  little  bark-cov 
ered  study,  detached  from  the  house  and  over 
looking  the  Hudson,  where  Mr.  Burroughs  does 
his  writing  when  at  home;  we  see  the  rustic  sum 
mer-house  near  by,  and  the  Riverby  vineyards, 
formerly  husbanded  by  "the  Vine-Dresser  of 
Esopus,"  as  his  friends  used  to  call  him;  now  by 
his  son  Julian,  who  combines,  like  his  father  before 
him,  grape-growing  with  essay-writing. 

A  pleasant  hour  is  spent  in  the  artistic  little  cot 
tage,  planned  and  built  by  the  author  and  his  son, 

193 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

where  live  Mr.  Julian  Burroughs  and  his  family. 
Here  the  grandfather  has  many  a  frolic  with  his 
three  grandchildren,  who  know  him  as  "  Baba." 
John  Burroughs  the  younger  is  his  special  pride. 
Who  knows  but  the  naturalist  stands  somewhat 
in  awe  of  his  grandson?  —  for  as  the  youngster 
reaches  for  his  "  Teddy,"  and  says  sententiously, 
"Bear! "the  elder  never  ventures  a  word  about 
the  dangers  of  "sham  natural  history." 

Boarding  the  West  Shore  train,  laden  with  fruit 
and  beechnuts  and  pleasant  memories,  we  return 
to  the  city's  roar  and  whirl,  dreaming  still  of  the 
calls  of  chickadees  in  the  bare  woods  and  of  quiet 
hours  before  the  fire  at  Slabsides. 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

THERE  has  always  been  a  haunting  sugges- 
tiveness  to  me  about  the  expression  Rue  du 
Temps  Perdu  —  the  Street  of  Lost  Time.  Down 
this  shadowy  vista  we  all  come  to  peer  with  tear- 
dimmed  eyes  sooner  or  later.  Usually  this  pensive 
retrospection  is  the  premonitory  sign  that  one  is 
nearing  the  last  milestone  before  the  downhill  side 
of  life  begins.  But  to  some  this  yearning  backward 
glance  comes  early;  they  feel  its  compelling  power 
while  still  in  the  vigor  of  middle  life.  Why  this  is 
so  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  but  imaginative,  brooding 
natures  who  live  much  in  their  emotions  are  prone 
to  this  chronic  homesickness  for  the  Past,  this  ever- 
recurring,  mournful  retrospect,  this  tender,  wistful 
gaze  into  the  years  that  are  no  more. 

It  is  this  tendency  in  us  all  as  we  grow  older 
that  makes  us  drift  back  to  the  scenes  of  our  youth; 
it  satisfies  a  deep-seated  want  to  look  again  upon 
the  once  familiar  places.  We  seek  them  out  with 
an  eagerness  wholly  wanting  in  ordinary  pursuits, 
The  face  of  the  fields,  the  hills,  the  streams,  the 
house  where  one  was  born  —  how  they  are  invested 
with  something  that  exists  nowhere  else,  wander 
where  we  will!  In  their  midst  memories  come 
crowding  thick  and  fast;  things  of  moment,  critical 

195 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

episodes,  are  mingled  with  the  most  trivial  hap 
penings;  smiles  and  tears  and  sighs  are  curiously 
blended  as  we  stroll  down  the  Street  of  Lost  Time. 
While  we  are  all  more  or  less  under  this  spell  of 
the  Past,  some  natures  are  more  particularly  en 
thralled  by  it,  even  in  the  very  zenith  of  life,  show 
ing  it  to  be  of  temperamental  origin  rather  than 
the  outcome  of  the  passing  years.  Of  such  a  tem 
perament  is  John  Burroughs.  Now,  when  the 
snows  of  five-and-seventy  winters  have  whitened 
his  head,  we  do  not  wonder  when  we  hear  him  say, 
"  Ah!  the  Past!  the  Past  has  such  a  hold  on  me!" 
But  even  before  middle  life  he  experienced  this 
yearning,  even  then  confessed  that  he  had  for 
many  years  viewed  everything  in  the  light  of  the 
afternoon's  sun  —  "  a  little  faded  and  diluted,  and 
with  a  pensive  tinge."  "  It  almost  amounts  to  a 
disease,"  he  reflects,  "  this  homesickness  which 
home  cannot  cure  —  a  strange  complaint.  Some 
times  when  away  from  the  old  scenes  it  seems  as  if 
I  must  go  back  to  them,  as  if  I  should  find  the  old 
contentment  and  satisfaction  there  in  the  circle 
of  the  hills.  But  I  know  I  should  not  —  the  soul's 
thirst  can  never  be  slaked.  My  hunger  is  the  hun 
ger  of  the  imagination.  Bring  all  my  dead  back 
again,  and  place  me  amid  them  in  the  old  home, 
and  a  vague  longing  and  regret  would  still  pos 


sess  me." 


196 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

As  early  as  his  forty-fifth  birthday  he  wrote 
in  his  journal :  "  Indeed,  the  Past  begins  to  grow 
at  my  back  like  a  great  pack,  and  it  seems  as  if  it 
would  overwhelm  me  quite  before  I  get  to  be  really 
an  old  man.  As  time  passes,  the  world  becomes 
more  and  more  a  Golgotha,  —  a  place  of  graves,  — 
even  if  one  does  not  actually  lose  by  death  his 
friends  and  kindred.  The  days  do  not  merely 
pass,  we  bury  them;  they  are  of  us,  like  us,  and 
in  them  we  bury  our  own  image,  a  real  part  of 
ourselves." 

Perhaps,  among  the  poems  of  Mr.  Burroughs, 
next  to  "  Waiting  "  the  verses  that  have  the  most 
universal  appeal  are  those  of  — 

THE  RETURN 

He  sought  the  old  scenes  with  eager  feet  — 

The  scenes  he  had  known  as  a  boy; 
"Oh,  for  a  draught  of  those  fountains  sweet, 
And  a  taste  of  that  vanished  joy!" 

He  roamed  the  fields,  he  wooed  the  streams, 
His  school-boy  paths  essayed  to  trace; 

The  orchard  ways  recalled  his  dreams, 
The  hills  were  like  his  mother's  face. 

Oh,  sad,  sad  hills!  Oh,  cold,  cold  hearth! 

In  sorrow  he  learned  this  truth  — 
One  may  return  to  the  place  of  his  birth, 

He  cannot  go  back  to  his  youth. 
197 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

But  a  half -loaf  is  better  than  no  bread,  and  Mr. 
Burroughs  has  now  yielded  to  this  deep-seated 
longing  for  his  boyhood  scenes,  and  has  gone  back 
to  the  place  of  his  birth  amid  the  Catskills;  and  one 
who  sees  him  there  during  the  midsummer  days  — 
alert,  energetic,  curious  concerning  the  life  about 
him  —  is  almost  inclined  to  think  he  has  literally 
gone  back  to  his  youth  as  well,  for  the  boy  in  him 
is  always  coming  to  the  surface. 

It  was  on  the  watershed  of  the  Pepacton  (the 
East  Branch  of  the  Delaware),  in  the  town  of  Rox- 
bury,  Delaware  County,  New  York,  that  John 
Burroughs  was  born,  and  there  that  he  gathered 
much  of  the  harvest  of  his  earlier  books;  it  was 
there  also  that  most  of  his  more  recent  books  were 
written.  Although  he  left  the  old  scenes  in  his 
youth,  his  heart  has  always  been  there.  He  went 
back  many  years  ago  and  named  one  of  his  books 
("  Pepacton")  from  the  old  stream,  and  he  has  now 
gone  back  and  arranged  for  himself  a  simple  sum 
mer  home  on  the  farm  where  he  first  saw  the  light. 

Most  of  his  readers  have  heard  much  of  Slab- 
sides,  the  cabin  in  the  wooded  hills  back  of  the 
Hudson,  and  of  his  conventional  home,  Riverby,  at 
West  Park,  New  York;  but  as  yet  the  public  has 
heard  little  of  his  more  remote  retreat  on  his  native 
heath. 

198 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

For  several  years  it  has  been  his  custom  to  slip 
away  to  the  old  home  in  Delaware  County  on  one 
pretext  or  another  —  to  boil  sap  in  the  old  sugar 
bush  and  rejoice  in  the  April  frolic  of  the  robins; 
to  meander  up  Montgomery  Hollow  for  trout;  to 
gather  wild  strawberries  in  the  June  meadows 
and  hobnob  with  the  bobolinks;  to  saunter  in  the 
hemlocks  in  quest  of  old  friends  in  the  tree-tops; 
and — yes,  truth  compels  me  to  confess  —  to  sit  in 
the  fields  with  rifle  in  hand  and  wage  war  against 
the  burrowing  woodchuck  which  is  such  a  menace 
to  the  clover  and  vegetables  of  the  farmer. 

In  the  summer  of  1908,  Mr.  Burroughs  rescued 
an  old  dwelling  fast  going  to  decay  which  stood 
on  the  farm  a  half-mile  from  the  Burroughs  home 
stead,  and  there,  with  friends,  camped  out  for  a  few 
weeks,  calling  the  place,  because  of  the  neighbors 
who  most  frequented  it,  "  Camp  Monax,"  or,  in 
homelier  language,  "Woodchuck  Lodge."  In  the 
succeeding  summers  he  has  spent  most  of  his  time 
there.  Though  repairing  and  adding  many  im 
provements,  he  has  preserved  the  simple,  primi 
tive  character  of  the  old  house,  has  built  a  roomy 
veranda  across  its  front,  made  tables,  bookcases, 
and  other  furniture  of  simple  rustic  character,  and 
there  in  summer  he  dwells  with  a  few  friends,  as 
contented  and  serene  a  man  as  can  be  found  in  this 
complicated  world  of  to-day.  There  his  old  friends 

199 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

seek  him  out,  and  new  ones  come  to  greet  him. 
Artists  and  sculptors  paint  and  model  him,  and 
photographers  carry  away  souvenirs  of  their  pil 
grimages. 

In  order  to  withdraw  himself  completely  during 
his  working  hours  from  the  domestic  life,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  instituted  a  study  in  the  hay-barn,  a  few 
rods  up  the  hill  from  the  house.  A  rough  box,  the 
top  of  which  is  covered  with  manilla  paper,  an  old 
hickory  chair,  and  a  hammock  constitute  his  fur 
nishings.  The  hay  carpet  and  overflowing  hay 
mows  yield  a  fragrance  most  acceptable  to  him, 
and  through  the  great  doorway  he  looks  out  upon 
the  unfrequented  road  and  up  to  Old  Clump,  the 
mountain  in  the  lap  of  which  his  father's  farm  is 
cradled,  the  mountain  which  he  used  to  climb  to 
salt  the  sheep,  the  mountain  which  is  the  haunt  of 
the  hermit  thrush.  (His  nieces  and  nephews  at  the 
old  home  always  speak  of  this  songster  as  "  Uncle 
John's  bird.") 

As  I  watched  Mr.  Burroughs  start  out  morning 
after  morning  with  his  market-basket  of  manu 
scripts  on  his  arm,  and  briskly  walk  to  his  rude 
study,  I  asked  myself,  "Is  there  another  literary 
man  anywhere,  now  that  Tolstoy  has  gone,  who  is 
so  absolutely  simple  and  unostentatious  in  tastes 
and  practice  as  is  John  Burroughs?"  How  he  has 
learned  to  strip  away  the  husks  and  get  at  the 

200 


MR.    BURROUGHS    IN   THE    HAY-BARN    STUDY 
WOODCHUCK    LODGE 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

kernels!  How  superbly  he  ignores  non-essentials! 
how  free  he  is  from  the  tyranny  of  things!  There 
in  the  comfort  of  the  hills  among  which  his  life 
began,  with  his  friends  around  him,  he  rejoices  in 
the  ever-changing  face  of  Nature,  enjoys  the  fruits 
of  his  garden,  his  forenoons  of  work,  and  the  after 
noons  when  friends  from  near  and  far  walk  across 
the  fields,  or  drive,  or  motor  up  to  Woodchuck 
Lodge;  and  best  of  all,  he  enjoys  the  peace  that 
evening  brings — those  late  afternoon  hours  when 
the  shadow  of  Old  Clump  is  thrown  on  the  broad 
mountain-slope  across  the  valley,  and  when  the 
long,  silvery  notes  of  the  vesper  sparrow  chant 
"Peace,  goodwill,  and  then  good-night."  As  the 
shadows  deepen,  he  is  wont  to  carry  his  Victor  out 
to  the  stone  wall  and  let  the  music  from  Brahms's 
"Cradle  Song"  or  Schubert's  "Serenade"  float 
to  us  as  we  sit  on  the  veranda,  hushed  into  humble 
gratitude  for  our  share  in  this  quiet  life. 

To  see  Mr.  Burroughs  daily  amid  these  scenes; 
to  realize  how  they  are  a  part  of  him,  and  how  in 
imitably  he  has  transferred  them  to  his  books;  to 
roam  over  the  pastures,  follow  the  spring  paths, 
linger  by  the  stone  walls  he  helped  to  build,  sit  with 
him  on  the  big  rock  in  the  meadow  where  as  a  boy 
he  sat  and  dreamed;  to  see  him  in  the  everyday 
life  —  hoeing  in  the  garden,  tiptoeing  about  the 
house  preparing  breakfast  while  his  guests  are 

201 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

lazily  dozing  on  the  veranda;  to  eat  his  corn-cakes, 
or  the  rice-flour  pudding  with  its  wild  strawberry 
accompaniment;  to  see  him  rocking  his  grandson 
in  the  old  blue  cradle  in  which  he  himself  was 
rocked;  to  picnic  in  the  beech  woods  with  him, 
climb  toward  Old  Clump  at  sunset  and  catch  the 
far-away  notes  of  the  hermit;  to  loll  in  the  ham 
mocks  under  the  apple  trees,  or  to  sit  in  the  glow 
of  the  Franklin  stove  of  a  cool  September  evening 
while  he  and  other  philosophic  or  scientific  friends 
discuss  weighty  themes;  to  hear  his  sane,  wise,  and 
often  humorous  comments  on  the  daily  papers, 
and  his  absolutely  independent  criticism  of  books 
and  magazines  —  to  witness  and  experience  all  this, 
and  more,  is  to  enjoy  a  privilege  so  rare  that  I 
feel  selfish  unless  I  try  to  share  it,  in  a  measure, 
with  less  fortunate  friends  of  Our  Friend. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  spend  many  de 
lightful  summers  with  Mr.  Burroughs  at  his  old 
home,  and  also  at  Woodchuck  Lodge.  On  my  first 
visit  he  led  me  to  a  hilltop  and  pointed  off  toward 
a  deep  gorge  where  the  Pepacton,  although  it  is 
a  placid  stream  near  Roxbury,  rises  amid  scenery 
wild  and  rugged.  It  drains  this  high  pastoral 
country,  where  the  farms  hang  upon  the  mountain 
sides  or  lie  across  the  long,  sloping  hills.  The  look 
of  those  farms  impressed  me  as  the  fields  of  Eng 
land  impressed  Mr.  Burroughs —  "  as  though  upon 

202 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

them  had  settled  an  atmosphere  of  ripe  and  lov 
ing  husbandry."  I  was  often  reminded  in  looking 
upon  them  of  that  line  of  Emerson's:  "The  day, 
immeasurably  long,  sleeps  over  the  wide,  warm 
fields."  There  is  a  fresh,  blue,  cleansed  appearance 
to  the  hills,  "  like  a  newly- washed  lamp  chimney," 
as  Mr.  Burroughs  sometimes  said. 

Our  writer's  overmastering  attachment  to  his 
birthplace  seems  due  largely  to  the  fact  that  the 
springs,  the  hills,  and  the  wooded  mountains  are 
inextricably  blended  with  his  parents  and  his 
youth.  As  he  has  somewhere  said,  "One's  own 
landscape  comes  in  time  to  be  a  sort  of  outlying 
part  of  him;  he  has  sown  himself  broadcast  upon 
it  ...  planted  himself  in  the  fields,  builded  him 
self  in  the  stone  walls,  and  evoked  the  sympathy 
of  the  hills  in  his  struggle." 

From  a  hilltop  he  pointed  off  to  the  west  and 
said,  "Yonder  is  the  direction  that  my  grand 
parents  came,  in  the  1790's,  from  Stamford,  cut 
ting  a  road  through  the  woods,  and  there,  over 
Batavia  Hill,  Father  rode  when  he  went  courting 
Mother." 

Then  we  went  up  the  tansy-bordered  road,  past 
the  little  graveyard,  and  over  to  the  site  where  his 
grandfather's  first  house  stood.  As  we  wandered 
about  the  old  stone  foundations,  his  reminiscences 
were  interrupted  by  the  discovery  of  a  junco's  nest. 

203 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

On  the  way  back  he  pointed  across  the  wide  valley 
to  the  West  Settlement  schoolhouse  where  he  and 
his  brothers  used  to  go,  although  his  first  school 
was  in  a  little  stone  building  which  is  still  standing 
on  the  outskirts  of  Roxbury,  and  known  there 
abouts  as  "  the  old  stone  jug."  Mr.  Burroughs  re 
members  his  first  day  in  this  school,  and  the  little 
suit  he  wore,  of  bluish  striped  cotton,  with  epaulets 
on  the  shoulders  which  flopped  when  he  ran.  He 
fell  asleep  one  day  and  tumbled  off  the  seat,  cutting 
his  head;  he  was  carried  to  a  neighboring  farm 
house,  and  he  still  vividly  recalls  the  smell  of  cam 
phor  which  pervaded  the  room  when  he  regained 
consciousness.  He  was  about  four  years  of  age. 
He  remembers  learning  his  "A-b  ab's,"  as  they 
were  called,  and  just  how  the  column  of  letters 
looked  in  the  old  spelling-book;  remembers  sitting 
on  the  floor  under  the  desks  and  being  called  out 
once  in  a  while  to  say  his  letters:  "  Hen  Meeker, 
a  boy  bigger  than  I  was,  stuck  on  e.  I  can  remem 
ber  the  teacher  saying  to  him:  'And  you  can't 
tell  that?  Why,  little  Johnny  Burroughs  can  tell 
you  what  it  is.  Come,  Johnny/  And  I  crawled 
out  and  went  up  and  said  it  was  e,  like  a  little 
man." 

Up  the  hill  a  short  distance  from  the  old  home 
stead  he  indicated  the  "turn  'n  the  road,"  as 
it  passes  by  the  "  Deacon  Woods";  this,  he  said, 

204 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

was  his  first  journey  into  the  world.  He  was  about 
four  years  old  when,  running  away,  he  got  as  far 
as  this  turn;  then,  looking  back  and  seeing  how  far 
he  was  from  the  house,  he  became  frightened  and 
ran  back  crying.  "  I  have  seen  a  young  robin,"  he 
added,  "  do  the  very  same  thing  on  its  first  journey 
from  the  nest." 

"  One  of  my  earliest  recollections,"  he  said,  "  is 
that  of  lying  on  the  hearth  one  evening  to  catch 
crickets  that  Mother  said  ate  holes  in  our  stockings 
—  big,  light-colored,  long-legged  house  crickets, 
with  long  horns;  one  would  jump  a  long  way. 

"Another  early  recollection  comes  to  me:  one 
summer  day,  when  I  was  three  or  four  years  old, 
on  looking  skyward,  I  saw  a  great  hawk  sailing 
round  in  big  circles.  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a 
panic  of  fear  and  hid  behind  the  stone  wall. 

"  The  very  earliest  recollection  of  my  life  is  that 
of  the  'hired  girl'  throwing  my  cap  down  the  steps, 
and  as  I  stood  there  crying,  I  looked  up  on  the  side- 
hill  and  saw  Father  with  a  bag  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  striding  across  the  furrows  sowing  grain. 
It  was  a  warm  spring  day,  and  as  I  looked  hill  ward 
wistfully,  I  wished  Father  would  come  down  and 
punish  the  girl  for  throwing  my  cap  down  the 
stairs  —  little  insignificant  things,  but  how  they 
stick  in  the  memory!" 

"  I  see  myself  as  a  little  boy  rocking  this  cradle," 
205 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

said  Mr.  Burroughs,  as  he  indicated  the  quaint 
blue  wooden  cradle  (which  I  had  found  in  rum 
maging  through  the  attic  at  the  old  home,  and  had 
installed  in  Woodchuck  Lodge),  "or  minding  the 
baby  while  Mother  bakes  or  mends  or  spins.  I 
hear  her  singing;  I  see  Father  pushing  on  the  work 
of  the  farm." 

Most  of  the  soil  in  Delaware  County  is  decom 
posed  old  red  sandstone.  Speaking  of  this  soil 
Mr.  Burroughs  said,  "  In  the  spring  when  the 
plough  has  turned  the  turf,  I  have  seen  the  breasts 
of  these  broad  hills  glow  like  the  breasts  of  robins." 
He  is  fond  of  studying  the  geology  of  the  region 
now.  I  have  seen  him  dig  away  the  earth  the  bet 
ter  to  expose  the  old  glacial  tracings,  and  then  ex 
plain  to  his  grandchildren  how  the  glaciers  ages 
ago  made  the  marks  on  the  rocks.  To  me  one  of 
the  finest  passages  in  his  recent  book  "  Time  and 
Change  "  is  one  wherein  he  describes  the  look  of 
repose  and  serenity  of  his  native  hills,  "as  if  the 
fret  and  fever  of  life  were  long  since  passed  with 
them."  It  is  a  passage  in  which  he  looks  at  his 
home  hills  through  the  eye  of  the  geologist,  but 
with  the  vision  of  the  poet  —  the  inner  eye  which 
assuredly  yields  him  "  the  bliss  of  solitude." 

One  evening  as  we  sat  in  the  kitchen  at  the  old 
home,  he  described  the  corn-shelling  of  the  olden 
days:  "  I  see  the  great  splint  basket  with  the  long 

206 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

frying-pan  handle  thrust  through  its  ears  across  the 
top,  held  down  by  two  chairs  on  either  end,  and 
two  of  my  brothers  sitting  in  the  chairs  and  scrap 
ing  the  ears  of  corn  against  the  iron.  I  hear  the 
kernels  rattle,  a  shower  of  them  falling  in  the  bas 
ket,  with  now  and  then  one  flying  out  in  the  room. 
With  the  cobs  that  lie  in  a  pile  beside  the  basket 
I  build  houses,  carrying  them  up  till  they  topple, 
or  till  one  of  the  shellers  knocks  them  over.  Mother 
is  sitting  by,  sewing,  her  tallow  dip  hung  on  the 
back  of  a  chair.  Winter  reigns  without.  How  it  all 
comes  up  before  me!" 

He  remembers  when  four  or  five  years  old  cry 
ing  over  a  thing  which  had  caused  him  deep  cha 
grin:  A  larger  boy  —  "the  meanest  boy  I  ever 
knew,  and  he  became  the  meanest  man,"  he  said 
with  spirit  —  "  found  me  sulking  under  a  tree  in 
the  corner  of  the  school-yard;  he  bribed  me  with 
a  slate  pencil  into  confessing  what  I  was  crying 
about,  but  as  soon  as  I  had  told  him,  he  ran  away 
with  the  pencil,  shouting  my  secret  to  the  other 
boys." 

One  day  we  went  'cross  lots  after  spearmint  for 
jelly  for  the  table  at  Woodchuck  Lodge,  and  an 
abandoned  house  near  the  mint-patches  recalled 
to  Mr.  Burroughs  the  first  time  he  had  heard  the 
word  "taste"  used,  except  in  reference  to  food. 
The  woman  who  had  lived  in  this  house,  while 

207 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

said  Mr.  Burroughs,  as  he  indicated  the  quaint 
blue  wooden  cradle  (which  I  had  found  in  rum 
maging  through  the  attic  at  the  old  home,  and  had 
installed  in  Woodchuck  Lodge),  "  or  minding  the 
baby  while  Mother  bakes  or  mends  or  spins.  I 
hear  her  singing;  I  see  Father  pushing  on  the  work 
of  the  farm." 

Most  of  the  soil  in  Delaware  County  is  decom 
posed  old  red  sandstone.  Speaking  of  this  soil 
Mr.  Burroughs  said,  "  In  the  spring  when  the 
plough  has  turned  the  turf,  I  have  seen  the  breasts 
of  these  broad  hills  glow  like  the  breasts  of  robins." 
He  is  fond  of  studying  the  geology  of  the  region 
now.  I  have  seen  him  dig  away  the  earth  the  bet 
ter  to  expose  the  old  glacial  tracings,  and  then  ex 
plain  to  his  grandchildren  how  the  glaciers  ages 
ago  made  the  marks  on  the  rocks.  To  me  one  of 
the  finest  passages  in  his  recent  book  "  Time  and 
Change  "  is  one  wherein  he  describes  the  look  of 
repose  and  serenity  of  his  native  hills,  "as  if  the 
fret  and  fever  of  life  were  long  since  passed  with 
them."  It  is  a  passage  in  which  he  looks  at  his 
home  hills  through  the  eye  of  the  geologist,  but 
with  the  vision  of  the  poet  —  the  inner  eye  which 
assuredly  yields  him  "  the  bliss  of  solitude." 

One  evening  as  we  sat  in  the  kitchen  at  the  old 
home,  he  described  the  corn-shelling  of  the  olden 
days:  "  I  see  the  great  splint  basket  with  the  long 

206 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

frying-pan  handle  thrust  through  its  ears  across  the 
top,  held  down  by  two  chairs  on  either  end,  and 
two  of  my  brothers  sitting  in  the  chairs  and  scrap 
ing  the  ears  of  corn  against  the  iron.  I  hear  the 
kernels  rattle,  a  shower  of  them  falling  in  the  bas 
ket,  with  now  and  then  one  flying  out  in  the  room. 
With  the  cobs  that  lie  in  a  pile  beside  the  basket 
I  build  houses,  carrying  them  up  till  they  topple, 
or  till  one  of  the  shellers  knocks  them  over.  Mother 
is  sitting  by,  sewing,  her  tallow  dip  hung  on  the 
back  of  a  chair.  Winter  reigns  without.  How  it  all 
comes  up  before  me!" 

He  remembers  when  four  or  five  years  old  cry 
ing  over  a  thing  which  had  caused  him  deep  cha 
grin:  A  larger  boy  —  "the  meanest  boy  I  ever 
knew,  and  he  became  the  meanest  man,"  he  said 
with  spirit  —  "  found  me  sulking  under  a  tree  in 
the  corner  of  the  school-yard;  he  bribed  me  with 
a  slate  pencil  into  confessing  what  I  was  crying 
about,  but  as  soon  as  I  had  told  him,  he  ran  away 
with  the  pencil,  shouting  my  secret  to  the  other 
boys." 

One  day  we  went  'cross  lots  after  spearmint  for 
jelly  for  the  table  at  Woodchuck  Lodge,  and  an 
abandoned  house  near  the  mint-patches  recalled 
to  Mr.  Burroughs  the  first  time  he  had  heard  the 
word  "taste"  used,  except  in  reference  to  food. 
The  woman  who  had  lived  in  this  house,  while 

207 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

calling  at  his  home  and  seeing  his  attempt  at 
drawing  something,  had  said,  "What  taste  that 
boy  has!"  "  It  made  me  open  my  eyes  —  'taste'! 
• —  then  there  was  another  kind  of  taste  than  the 
one  I  knew  about  —  the  taste  of  things  I  ate ! " 

At  a  place  in  the  road  near  the  old  stone  school- 
house,  he  showed  me  where,  as  a  lad  of  thirteen, 
perhaps,  he  had  stopped  to  watch  some  men  work 
ing  the  road,  and  had  first  heard  the  word  "  an 
tiquities"  used.  "They  had  uncovered  and  re 
moved  a  large  flat  stone,  and  under  it  were  other 
stones,  probably  arranged  by  the  hands  of  earlier 
roadmakers.  David  Corbin,  a  man  who  had  had 
some  schooling,  said,  as  they  exposed  the  earlier 
layers,  '  Ah!  here  are  antiquities!'  The  word  made 
a  lasting  impression  on  me." 

One  of  our  favorite  walks  at  sunset  was  up  the 
hill  beyond  the  old  home  where  the  road  winds 
around  a  neglected  graveyard.  From  this  high 
vantage-ground  one  can  see  two  of  the  Catskill 
giants  —  Double  Top  and  Mount  Graham.  It  was 
not  a  favorite  walk  of  the  boy  John  Burroughs. 
He  told  how,  even  in  his  early  teens,  at  dusk,  he 
would  tiptoe  around  the  corner  past  the  graveyard, 
afraid  to  run  for  fear  a  gang  of  ghosts  would  be  at 
his  heels.  "  When  I  got  down  the  road  a  ways, 
though,  how  I  would  run ! "  He  was  always  "scairy  " 
if  he  had  to  come  along  the  edge  of  the  woods  alone 

208 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

at  nightfall,  and  was  even  afraid  of  the  big  black 
hole  under  the  barn  in  the  daytime:  "I  was  tor 
tured  with  the  thought  of  what  might  lurk  there 
in  that  great  black  abyss,  and  would  hustle  through 
my  work  of  cleaning  the  stable,  working  like  Her 
cules,  and  often  sending  in  'Cuff,'  the  dog,  to 
scare  'em  out." 

Fed  on  stories  of  ghosts  and  hobgoblins  in  child 
hood,  his  active,  sensitive  imagination  became  an 
easy  prey  to  these  fears.  But  we  do  outgrow  some 
things.  In  the  summer  of  1911  this  grown-up  boy 
waxed  so  bold  that  he  sat  in  the  barn  with  its  black 
hole  underneath  and  wrote  of  "The  Phantoms 
Behind  Us."  There  was  still  something  Hercu 
lean  in  his  task;  he  looked  boldly  down  into  the 
black  abysms  of  Time,  not  without  some  shrink 
ing,  it  is  true,  saw  the  "  huge  first  Nothing,"  faced 
the  spectres  as  they  rose  before  him,  wrestled  with 
them,  and  triumphantly  conquered  by  acknowl 
edging  each  phantom  as  a  friendly  power  —  a 
creature  on  whose  shoulders  he  had  raised  himself 
to  higher  and  higher  levels;  he  saw  that  though 
the  blackness  was  peopled  with  uncouth  and  gi 
gantic  forms,  out  of  all  these  there  at  last  arose  the 
being  Man,  who  could  put  all  creatures  under  his 
feet. 

Along  the  road  between  the  old  home  and  Wood- 
chuck  Lodge  are  some  rocks  which  were  the  "giant 

209 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

stairs"  of  his  childhood.  On  these  he  played,  and 
he  is  fond  now  of  pausing  and  resting  there  as  he 
recalls  events  of  those  days. 

"Are  these  rocks  very  old?"  some  one  asked 
him  one  day. 

"  Oh,  yes;  they've  been  here  since  Adam  was  a 
kitten." 

Whichever  way  he  turns,  memories  of  early  days 
awaken;  as  he  himself  has  somewhere  said  in  print, 
"  there  is  a  deposit  of  him  all  over  the  landscape 
where  he  has  lived." 

As  we  have  learned,  Mr.  Burroughs  seems  to 
have  been  more  alive  than  his  brothers  and  play 
mates,  to  have  had  wider  interests  and  activities. 
When,  a  lad,  he  saw  his  first  warbler  in  the  "  Dea 
con  Woods,"  the  black-throated  blue-back,  he 
was  excited  and  curious  as  to  what  the  strange  bird 
could  be  (so  like  a  visitant  from  another  clime  it 
seemed) ;  the  other  boys  met  his  queries  with  indif 
ference,  but  for  him  it  was  the  event  of  the  day; 
it  was  far  more,  it  was  the  keynote  to  all  his  days; 
it  opened  his  eyes  to  the  life  about  him  —  here, 
right  in  the  "  Deacon  Woods,"  were  such  exquisite 
creatures!  It  fired  him  with  a  desire  to  find  out 
about  them.  That  tiny  flitting  warbler!  How  far 
its  little  wings  have  carried  it!  What  an  influence 
it  has  had  on  American  literature,  and  on  the  lives 

210 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

of  readers  for  the  past  fifty  years,  sending  them 
to  nature,  opening  their  eyes  to  the  beauty  that  is 
common  and  near  at  hand!  One  feels  like  thank 
ing  the  Giver  of  all  good  that  a  little  barefoot  boy 
noted  the  warbler  that  spring  day  as  it  flitted  about 
in  the  beechen  wood.  Life  has  been  sweeter  and 
richer  because  of  it. 

Down  the  road  a  piece  is  the  place  where  this 
boy  made  a  miniature  sawmill,  sawing  cucumbers 
for  logs.  On  this  very  rock  where  we  sit  he  used  to 
catch  the  flying  grasshoppers  early  of  an  August 
morning  — "  the  big  brown  fellows  that  fly  like 
birds";  they  would  congregate  here  during  the 
night  to  avail  themselves  of  the  warmth  of  the 
rocks,  and  here  he  would  stop  on  his  way  from 
driving  the  cows  to  pasture,  and  catch  them  nap 
ping. 

Yonder  in  the  field  by  a  stone  wall,  under  a 
maple  which  is  no  longer  standing,  in  his  early 
twenties  he  read  SchlegePs  "  Philosophy  of  His 
tory,"  one  of  the  volumes  which,  when  a  youth,  he 
had  found  in  an  old  bookstall  in  New  York,  on 
the  occasion  of  his  first  trip  there. 

"  Off  there  through  what  we  used  to  call  the 
'Long  Woods'  lies  the  road  along  which  Father 
used  to  travel  in  the  autumn  when  he  took  his 
butter  to  Catskill,  fifty  miles  away!  Each  boy 
went  in  turn.  When  it  came  my  turn  to  go,  I  was 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

in  a  great  state  of  excitement  for  a  week  before 
hand,  for  fear  my  clothes  would  not  be  ready,  or 
else  it  would  be  too  cold,  or  that  the  world  would 
come  to  an  end  before  the  time  of  starting. 
Perched  high  on  a  spring-seat,  I  made  the  journey 
and  saw  more  sights  and  wonders  than  I  have 
ever  seen  on  a  journey  since." 

On  the  drive  up  from  the  village  he  showed  me 
the  place,  a  mile  or  more  from  their  haunts  on  the 
breezy  mountain  lands,  where  the  sheep  were 
driven  annually  to  be  washed.  It  was  a  deep  pool 
then,  and  a  gristmill  stood  near  by.  He  said  he 
could  see  now  the  huddled  sheep,  and  the  over 
hanging  rocks  with  the  phcebes'  nests  in  the 
crevices. 

"  Down  in  the  Hollow,"  as  they  call  the  village 
of  Roxbury,  he  drew  my  attention  to  the  building 
which  was  once  the  old  academy,  and  where  he 
had  his  dream  of  going  to  school.  He  remembers 
as  a  lad  of  thirteen  going  down  to  the  village  one 
evening  to  hear  a  man,  McLaurie,  talk  up  the 
academy  before  there  was  one  in  Roxbury.  "I 
remember  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday;  a  few  of  the 
leading  men  of  the  village  were  there.  I  was  the 
only  boy.  I  've  wondered  since  what  possessed  me 
to  go.  In  his  talk  the  man  spoke  of  what  a  blessing 
it  would  be  to  boys  of  that  vicinity,  pointing  me 
out  and  saying,  'Now,  like  that  boy,  there.'  I 

212 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

recall  how  I  dropped  my  head  and  blushed.  He 
was  a  small  man,  very  much  in  earnest.  When  I 
heard  of  his  death  a  few  years  ago,  it  gave  me  long, 
long  thoughts.  He  finally  got  the  academy  going, 
taught  it,  and  had  a  successful  school  there  for 
several  years,  but  I  never  got  there.  The  school 
in  the  West  Settlement,  Father  thought,  was  good 
enough  for  me.  But  my  desire  to  go,  and  dreaming 
of  it,  impressed  it  and  him  upon  me  more,  perhaps, 
than  the  boys  who  really  went  were  impressed. 
How  outside  of  it  all  I  felt  when  I  used  to  go  down 
there  to  the  school  exhibitions!  It  was  after  that 
that  I  had  my  dream  of  going  to  Harpersfield  Semi 
nary  —  the  very  name  had  a  romantic  sound. 
Though  Father  had  promised  me  I  might  go,  when 
the  time  came  he  could  n't  afford  it;  he  did  n't 
mean  to  go  back  on  his  word,  but  there  was  very 
little  money  —  I  wonder  how  they  got  along  so 
well  as  they  did  with  so  little." 

"As  a  boy  it  had  been  instilled  into  my  mind  that 
God  would  strike  one  dead  for  mocking  him.  One 
day  Ras  Jenkins  and  I  were  crossing  this  field 
when  it  began  to  thunder.  Ras  turned  up  his  lips 
to  the  clouds  contemptuously.  'Oh,  don't,  you'll 
be  struck,'  I  cried,  cringing  in  expectation  of  the 
avenging  thunderbolt.  What  a  revelation  it  was 
when  he  was  not  struck !  I  immediately  began  to 
think,  'Now,  maybe  God  is  n't  so  easily  offended 

213 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

as  I  thought';  but  it  seemed  to  me  any  God  with 
dignity  ought  to  have  been  offended  by  such  an 
act." 

Mr.  Burroughs  showed  me  the  old  rosebush  in 
the  pasture,  all  that  was  left  to  mark  the  site 
where  a  house  had  once  stood;  even  before  his  boy 
hood  days  this  house  had  become  a  thing  of  the 
past.  The  roses,  though,  had  always  been  a  joy 
to  him,  and  had  played  such  a  part  in  his  early 
days  that  he  had  transplanted  some  of  the  old 
bush  to  a  spot  near  his  doorsteps  at  Slabsides. 
Once  when  he  sent  me  some  of  the  roses  he  wrote 
of  them  thus:  "The  roses  of  my  boyhood!  Take 
the  first  barefooted  country  lad  you  see  with  home 
made  linen  trousers  and  shirt,  and  ragged  straw 
hat,  and  put  some  of  these  roses  in  his  hand,  and 
you  see  me  as  I  was  fifty-five  years  ago.  They  are 
the  identical  roses,  mind  you.  Sometime  I  will  show 
you  the  bush  in  the  old  pasture  where  they  grew." 

One  day  we  followed  the  course  he  and  his 
brothers  and  sisters  used  to  take  on  their  way  to 
school.  Leaving  the  highway  near  the  old  grave 
yard,  we  went  down  across  a  meadow,  then  through 
a  beech  wood,  and  on  through  the  pastures  in  the 
valley  along  which  a  trout  brook  used  to  flow,  on 
across  more  meadows  and  past  where  a  neglected 
orchard  was,  till  we  came  to  where  the  little  old 
schoolhouse  itself  stood. 

214 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

How  these  trout  streams  used  to  lure  him  to 
play  hookey!  All  the  summer  noonings,  too, 
were  spent  there.  He  spoke  feelingly  of  the  one 
that  coursed  through  the  hemlocks  —  "  loitering, 
log-impeded,  losing  itself  in  the  dusky,  fragrant 
depths  of  the  hemlocks."  They  used  to  play 
hookey  down  at  Stratton  Falls,  too,  and  get  the 
green  streaks  in  the  old  red  sandstone  rocks  to 
make  slate  pencils  of,  trying  them  on  their  teeth 
to  make  sure  they  were  soft  enough  not  to  scratch 
their  slates.  The  woods  have  been  greatly  muti 
lated  in  which  they  used  to  loiter  on  the  way  to 
school  and  gather  crinkle-root  to  eat  with  their 
lunches,  —  though  they  usually  ate  it  all  up  before 
lunch-time  came,  he  said.  In  one  of  his  books 
Mr.  Burroughs  speaks  of  a  schoolmate  who,  when 
dying,  said,  "  I  must  hurry,  I  have  a  long  way  to 
go  over  a  hill  and  through  a  wood,  and  it  is  getting 
dark."  This  was  his  brother  Wilson,  and  he  doubt 
less  had  in  mind  this  very  course  they  used  to  take 
in  going  to  school. 

This  school  (where  Jay  Gould  was  his  playmate) 
he  attended  only  until  he  was  twelve  years  of  age. 
A  rather  curious  reciprocal  help  these  two  lads  gave 
each  other  —  especially  curious  in  the  light  of 
their  subsequent  careers  as  writer  and  financier. 
The  boy  John  Burroughs  was  one  day  feeling  very 
uncomfortable  because  he  could  not  furnish  a 

215 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

composition  required  of  him.  Eight  lines  only  were 
sufficient  if  the  task  was  completed  on  time,  but 
the  time  was  up  and  no  line  was  written.  This 
meant  being  kept  after  school  to  write  twelve  lines. 
In  this  extremity,  Jay  Gould  came  to  his  rescue 
with  the  following  doggerel :  — 

"Time  is  flying  past, 
Night  is  coming  fast, 
I,  minus  two,  as  you  all  know, 
But  what  is  more 
I  must  hand  o'er 
Twelve  lines  by  night, 
Or  stay  and  write. 
Just  eight  I  've  got 
But  you  know  that's  not 
Enough  lacking  four, 
But  to  have  twelve 
It  wants  no  more." 

"  I  have  never  been  able  to  make  out  what  the 
third  line  meant,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs.  A  few 
years  later,  when  Jay  Gould  was  hard  up  (he  had 
left  school  and  was  making  a  map  of  Delaware 
County),  John  Burroughs  helped  him  out  by  buy* 
ing  two  old  books  of  him,  paying  him  eighty  cents. 
The  books  were  a  German  grammar  and  Gray's 
"Elements  of  Geology."  The  embryo  financier 
was  glad  to  get  the  cash,  and  the  embryo  writer 
unquestionably  felt  the  richer  in  possessing  the 
books. 

216 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

Mr.  Burroughs  loves  to  look  off  toward  Mont 
gomery  Hollow  and  talk  of  the  old  haunt.  "I've 
taken  many  a  fine  string  of  trout  from  that  stream," 
he  would  say.  One  day  he  and  his  brother  Curtis 
and  I  drove  over  there  and  fished  the  stream,  and 
he  could  hardly  stay  in  the  wagon  the  last  half- 
mile.  "Is  n't  it  time  to  get  out  now,  Curtis?"  he 
fidgeted  every  little  while.  "Not  yet,  John,  —  not 
yet,"  said  the  more  phlegmatic  brother.  But  it 
was  August,  and  although  the  rapid  mountain 
brook  seemed  just  the  place  for  trout,  the  trout 
were  not  in  their  places.  I  shall  long  remember  the 
enticing  stream,  the  pretty  cascades,  the  high 
shelving  rocks  sheltering  the  mossy  nest  of  the 
phcebe,  and  the  glowing  masses  of  bee-balm  bloom 
ing  beside  the  stream;  yes,  and  the  eagerness  of 
one  of  the  fishermen  as  he  slipped  along  ahead  of 
me,  dropping  his  hook  into  the  pools.  Occasionally 
he  would  relinquish  the  rod,  putting  it  into  my 
hands  with  a  rare  self-denial  as  we  came  to  a 
promising  pool;  but  I  was  more  deft  at  gathering 
bee-balm  than  taking  trout,  and  willingly  spared 
the  rod  to  the  eager  angler.  And  even  he  secured 
only  two  troutling  to  carry  back  in  his  mint-lined 
creel. 

"  Trout  streams  gurgled  about  the  roots  of  my 
family  tree,"  he  was  wont  to  say  as  he  told  of  his 
grandfather  Kelly's  ardor  for  the  pastime.  One 

217 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

day,  in  crossing  the  fields  near  the  old  home,  he 
showed  me  the  stone  wall  where  he  and  his  grand 
father  tarried  the  last  time  they  went  fishing 
together,  he  a  boy  of  ten  and  his  grandfather  past 
eighty.  As  they  rested  on  the  wall,  the  old  man, 
without  noticing  it,  sat  on  the  lad's  hand  as  it  lay 
on  the  wall.  "  It  hurt,"  Mr.  Burroughs  said,  "  but 
I  did  n't  move  till  he  got  ready  to  get  up." 

It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  go  through  the  old 
sap  bush  with  Mr.  Burroughs,  for  there  he  always 
lives  over  again  the  days  in  early  spring  when 
sugar-making  was  in  progress.  He  showed  where 
some  of  the  old  trees  once  stood,  —  the  grand 
mother  trees,  —  and  mourned  that  they  were  no 
more;  but  some  of  the  mighty  maples  of  his  boy 
hood  are  still  standing,  and  each  recalls  youthful 
experiences.  He  sometimes  goes  back  there  now 
in  early  spring  to  re-create  the  idyllic  days. 
Their  ways  of  boiling  sap  are  different  now,  and  he 
finds  less  poetry  in  the  process.  But  the  look  of  the 
old  trees,  the  laugh  of  the  robins,  and  the  soft  nasal 
calls  of  the  nuthatch,  he  says,  are  the  same  as 
in  the  old  times.  "How  these  sounds  ignore  the 
years!"  he  exclaimed  as  a  nuthatch  piped  in  the 
near-by  trees. 

Sometimes  he  would  bring  over  to  Woodchuck 
Lodge  from  the  homestead  a  cake  of  maple  sugar 
from  the  veteran  trees,  and  some  of  the  maple- 

218 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

sugar  cookies  such  as  his  mother  used  to  make; 
though  he  eats  sparingly  of  sweets  nowadays.  Yet, 
when  he  and  a  small  boy  would  clear  the  table 
and  take  the  food  down  cellar,  it  was  no  uncom 
mon  thing  to  see  them  emerge  from  the  stairway, 
each  munching  one  of  those  fat  cookies,  their  eyes 
twinkling  at  the  thought  that  they  had  found  the 
forbidden  sweets  we  had  hidden  so  carefully. 

He  and  this  lad  of  eleven  were  great  chums;  they 
chased  wild  bees  together,  putting  honey  on  the 
stone  wall,  getting  a  line  on  the  bees;  shelled 
beechnuts  and  cracked  butternuts  for  the  chip 
munks;  caught  skunks  in  a  trap,  just  to  demon 
strate  that  a  skunk  can  be  carried  by  the  tail  with 
impunity,  if  you  only  do  it  right  (and,  though 
succeeding  one  day,  got  the  worst  of  the  bargain 
the  next) ;  and  waged  war  early  and  late  on  the 
flabby  woodchucks  which  one  could  see  almost 
any  hour  in  the  day  undulating  across  the  fields. 
We  called  these  boys  "  John  of  Woods,"  and  "  John 
of  Woodchucks";  and  it  was  sometimes  difficult 
to  say  which  was  the  veriest  boy,  the  one  of  eleven 
or  the  one  of  seventy -four. 

One  morning  I  heard  them  laughing  gleefully 
together  as  they  were  doing  up  the  breakfast  work. 
Calling  out  to  learn  the  cause  of  their  merriment, 
I  found  the  elder  John  had  forgotten  to  eat  his  egg 
—  he  had  just  found  it  in  his  coat-pocket,  having 

219 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

put  it  in  there  to  carry  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
living-room. 

He  often  amused  us  by  his  recital  of  Thackeray's 
absurd  "Little  Billee,"  and  by  the  application  of 
some  of  the  lines  to  events  in  the  life  at  Wood- 
chuck  Lodge. 

As  the  evenings  grew  longer  and  cooler,  we  would 
gather  about  the  table  and  Mr.  Burroughs  would 
read  aloud,  sometimes  from  Bergson's  "Creative 
Evolution,"  under  the  spell  of  which  he  was  the 
entire  summer  of  1911,  sometimes  from  Words 
worth,  sometimes  from  Whitman.  "No  other 
English  poet  has  touched  me  quite  so  closely,"  he 
said,  "as  Wordsworth.  .  .  .  But  his  poetry  has 
more  the  character  of  a  message,  and  a  message 
special  and  personal,  to  a  comparatively  small 
circle  of  readers."  As  he  read  "The  Poet's  Epi 
taph"  one  evening,  I  was  impressed  with  the  strong 
likeness  the  portrait  there  drawn  has  to  Mr. 
Burroughs :  — 

"The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 

Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, — 

The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart." 

220 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

What  are  the  books,  and  notably  the  later  philo 
sophical  essays,  of  Mr.  Burroughs  but  the  "  harvest 
of  a  quiet  eye"?  His  "Summit  of  the  Years,"  his 
"  Gospel  of  Nature"  (which  one  of  his  friends  calls 
"The  Gospel  according  to  Saint  John"),  his 
"  Noon  of  Science,"  his  "  Long  Road"?  And  most 
of  this  rich  harvest  he  has  gathered  in  his  journeys 
back  to  Pepacton,  inspired  by  the  scenes  amid 
which  he  first  felt  the  desire  to  write. 

Seeing  him  daily  in  these  scenes,  one  feels  that  it 
may,  indeed,  be  said  of  him  as  Matthew  Arnold 
said  of  Sophocles,  that  he  sees  life  steadily,  and 
sees  it  whole.  What  a  masterly  handling  is  his  of 
the  facts  of  the  universe,  giving  his  reader  the 
truths  of  the  scientist  touched  with  an  idealism 
such  as  is  only  known  to  the  poet's  soul!  A  friend, 
writing  me  of  "  The  Summit  of  the  Years,"  spoke 
of  "  its  splendid  ascent  by  a  rapid  crescendo  from 
the  personal  to  the  cosmic,"  and  of  how  gratifying 
it  is  to  see  our  author  putting  forth  such  fine  work 
in  his  advancing  years.  Another  friend  called  it 
"a  beautiful  record  of  a  beautiful  life."  I  recall  the 
September  morning  on  which  he  began  that  essay. 
He  had  written  the  first  sentence  —  "  The  longer 
I  live,  the  more  I  am  impressed  with  the  beauty 
and  the  wonder  of  the  world"  —  when  he  was  in 
terrupted  for  a  time.  He  spoke  of  what  he  had  writ 
ten,  and  said  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  going  to 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

make  of  it.  Later  in  the  day  he  brought  me  a  large 
part  of  the  essay  to  copy,  and  I  remember  how 
moved  I  was  at  its  beauty,  how  grateful  that  I  had 
been  present  at  its  inception  and  birth. 

One  afternoon  he  called  us  from  our  separate 
work,  the  artist  from  her  canvas  and  me  from  my 
typewriter,  to  look  at  a  wonderful  rainbow  span 
ning  the  wide  valley  below  us.  The  next  day  he 
brought  me  a  short  manuscript  saying,  "If  that 
seems  worth  while  to  you,  you  may  copy  it  —  I 
don't  know  whether  there  is  anything  in  it  or  not." 
It  was  "The  Rainbow,"  which  appeared  some 
months  later  in  a  popular  magazine  —  a  little  gem, 
and  a  good  illustration  of  his  ability  to  throw  the 
witchery  of  the  ideal  around  the  facts  of  nature. 
The  lad  with  us  had  been  learning  Wordsworth's 
"Rainbow,"  a  favorite  of  Mr.  Burroughs,  and  it 
was  no  unusual  thing  of  a  morning  to  hear  the 
rustic  philosopher  while  frying  the  bacon  for 
breakfast,  singing  contentedly  in  a  sort  of  tune  of 
his  own  making :  — 

"And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

One  afternoon  a  neighbor  came  and  took  him  in 
her  automobile  a  ride  of  fifty  miles  or  more,  the 
objective  point  of  which  was  Ashland,  the  place 
where  he  had  attended  a  seminary  in  1854  and 

222 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

1855.  On  his  return  he  said  it  seemed  like  wizard's 
work  that  he  could  be  whisked  there  and  back  in 
one  afternoon,  to  that  place  which  had  been  the 
goal  of  his  youthful  dreams!  They  had  also  called 
on  a  schoolmate  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  forty 
years.  He  told  us  how  a  possession  of  that  boy's 
had  been  a  thing  he  had  coveted  for  many  months 
—  a  slate  pencil  with  a  shining  copper  gun-cap ! 
"  How  I  longed  for  that  pencil !  I  tried  to  trade  for 
buttons  (all  I  had  to  offer  in  exchange),  but  it  was 
too  precious  for  my  small  barter,  and  I  coveted  it 
in  vain."  The  wistful  Celt  began  early  to  sigh  for 
the  unattainable. 

We  picked  wild  strawberries  in  June  from  the 
"clover  lot"  where  the  boy  John  Burroughs  and 
his  mother  used  to  pick  them.  "  I  can  see  her  now," 
he  said  reminiscently,  "her  bent  figure  moving 
slowly  in  the  summer  fields  toward  home  with  her 
basket  filled.  She  would  also  go  berrying  on  Old 
Clump,  in  early  haying,  long  after  the  berries  were 
gone  in  the  lowlands." 

During  this  summer  of  which  I  speak,  the  fields 
were  a  gorgeous  mass  of  color  —  buttercups  and 
daisies,  and  the  orange  hawkweed  —  a  display 
that  rivaled  the  carpet  of  gold  and  purple  we  had 
seen  in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley,  in  company  with 
John  Muir  three  summers  before.  Mr.  Muir  was 
then  in  New  York  hurrying  to  get  certain  writing 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

done  before  starting  for  South  America.  He  had 
promised  to  come  to  the  Catskills,  but  had  to  keep 
putting  it  off  to  get  copy  ready,  and  the  Laird  of 
Woodchuck  Lodge  was  exasperated  that  the  moun 
taineer  would  stay  in  that  hot  Babylon,  —  he,  the 
lover  of  the  wild,  —  when  we  in  the  Delectable 
Mountains  were  calling  him  hither.  As  we  looked 
upon  the  riot  of  color  one  day,  Mr.  Burroughs 
said,  "John  Muir,  confound  him!  I  wish  he  was 
here  to  see  this  at  its  height!" 

Returning  to  the  little  gray  farmhouse  in  the 
gathering  dusk  one  late  September  day,  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  paused  and  turned,  looking  back  at  the  old 
home,  and  up  at  the  cattle  silhouetted  against  the 
horizon.  He  gazed  upon  the  landscape  long  and 
long.  How  fondly  his  eye  dwells  upon  these  scenes! 
So  I  have  seen  him  look  when  about  to  part  from 
a  friend  —  as  if  he  were  trying  to  fix  the  features 
and  expression  in  his  mind  forever. 

"  The  older  one  grows,  the  more  the  later  years 
erode  away,  as  do  the  secondary  rocks,  and  one 
gets  down  to  bed-rock,  —  youth,  —  and  there  he 
wants  to  rest.  These  scenes  make  youth  and  all  the 
early  life  real  to  me,  the  rest  is  more  like  a  dream. 
How  incredible  it  is!  —  all  that  is  gone;  but  here  it 
lives  again." 

And  yet,  though  he  is  face  to  face  with  the  past 
at  his  old  home,  his  days  there  are  not  so  sad  as 


ON   THE    PORCH    AT   WOODCHUCK    LODGE 


BACK  TO  PEPACTON 

some  of  his  reminiscent  talk  would  seem  to  indicate. 
In  truth,  he  is  serenely  content,  so  much  so  that 
he  sometimes  almost  chides  himself  for  living  so 
much  in  the  present.  "Oh,  the  power  of  a  living 
reality  to  veil  or  blot  out  the  Past!"  he  sighed. 
"And  yet,  is  it  not  best  so?  Does  not  the  grass 
grow  above  graves?  Why  should  these  lovely 
scenes  always  be  a  cemetery  to  me?  There  seems 
to  have  been  a  spell  put  upon  them  that  has  laid 
the  ghosts,  and  I  am  glad."  And  to  see  him  bird- 
nesting  with  his  grandchildren,  hunting  in  the 
woods  for  crooked  sticks  for  his  rustic  furniture, 
waking  the  echo  in  the  "new  barn"  (a  barn  that 
was  new  in  1844),  routing  out  a  woodchuck  from 
a  stone  wall,  blackberrying  on  the  steep  hillsides, 
or  going  a  half-mile  across  the  fields  just  to  smell 
the  fragrance  of  the  buckwheat  bloom,  is  to  know 
that,  wistful  Celt  that  he  is,  and  dominated  by  the 
spell  of  the  Past,  he  is  yet  very  much  alive  to  the 
Present,  out  of  which  he  is  probably  getting  as 
full  a  measure  of  content  as  any  man  living  to-day. 
He  looked  about  him  at  the  close  of  his  first  stay 
at  Woodchuck  Lodge  after  the  completion  of  the 
repairs  which  had  made  the  house  so  homelike  and 
comfortable,  and  said  contentedly : "  A  beautiful 
dream  come  true!  And  to  think  I've  stayed  down 
there  on  the  Hudson  all  these  years  with  never 
the  home  feeling,  when  here  were  my  native  hills 

225 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

waiting  to  cradle  me  as  they  did  in  my  youth,  and  I 
so  slow  to  return  to  them !  I  Ve  been  homesick  for 
over  forty  years:  I  was  an  alien  there;  I  could  n't 
take  root  there.  It  was  a  lucky  day  when  I  de 
cided  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  summers  here  " 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

IN  February,  1909,  I  was  one  of  a  small  party 
which  set  out  with  Mr.  Burroughs  for  the 
Pacific  Coast  and  the  Hawaiian  Islands.  The  lure 
held  out  to  him  by  the  friend  who  arranged  his 
trip  was  that  John  Muir  would  start  from  his  home 
at  Martinez,  California,  and  await  him  at  the 
Petrified  Forests  in  Arizona;  conduct  him  through 
that  weirdly  picturesque  region,  and  in  and  around 
the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado;  camp  and  tramp 
with  him  in  the  Mojave  Desert;  tarry  awhile  in 
Southern  California;  then  visit  Yosemite  before 
embarking  on  the  Pacific  preparatory  to  lotus- 
eating  in  Hawaii.  The  lure  held  out  to  the  more 
obscure  members  of  the  party  was  all  that  has 
been  enumerated,  plus  that  of  having  these  two 
great,  simple  men  for  traveling  companions.  To 
see  the  wonders  of  the  Southwest  is  in  itself  great 
good  fortune,  but  to  see  them  in  company  with 
these  two  students  of  nature,  and  to  study  the 
students  while  the  students  were  studying  the 
wonders,  was  an  incalculable  privilege. 

It  frightens  me  now  when  I  think  on  what  a 
slight  chance  hung  our  opportunity  for  this  unique 
journey;  for  Mr.  Burroughs,  though  at  first  decid- 

227 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

ing  to  go,  had  later  given  it  up,  declaring  himself 
to  be  too  much  of  a  tenderfoot  to  go  so  far  from 
home  alone  at  his  age. 

"Why  should  I  go  gadding  about  to  see  the 
strange  and  the  extraordinary?"  he  wrote  me, 
when  trying  to  argue  himself  into  abandoning  the 
trip.  "  The  whole  gospel  of  my  books  (if  they  have 
any  gospel)  is  *  Stay  at  home;  see  the  wonderful 
and  the  beautiful  in  the  simple  things  all  about 
you;  make  the  most  of  the  common  and  the  near 
at  hand.'  When  I  have  gone  abroad,  I  have  car 
ried  this  spirit  with  me,  and  have  tested  what  I 
have  seen  by  the  nature  revealed  to  me  at  my  own 
doorstep.  Well,  I  am  glad  I  have  triumphed  at 
last;  I  feel  much  better  and  like  writing  again,  now 
that  this  incubus  is  off  my  shoulders."  But  the 
incubus  soon  rested  on  him  again,  for  the  next 
mail  carried  a  letter  begging  him  to  reconsider 
and  let  two  of  his  women  friends  accompany  him. 
So  it  all  came  about  in  a  few  days,  and  we  were 
off! 

We  wondered  how  Mr.  Muir  would  relish  two 
women  being  in  the  party,  but  assured  Mr.  Bur 
roughs  we  should  not  hamper  them,  and  should  be 
ready  to  do  whatever  they  were. 

"Have  no  fears  on  that  score,"  he  said;  "  Muir 
will  be  friendly  if  you  are  good  listeners;  and  he  is 
well  worth  listening  to.  He  is  very  entertaining, 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

but  he  sometimes  talks  when  I  want  to  be  let 

alone;  at  least  he  did  up  in  Alaska." 

"But  you  won't  be  crusty  to  him,  will  you?" 
"  Oh,  no,  I  shan't  dare  to  be  —  he  is  too  likely  to 

get  the  best  of  one;  he  is  a  born  tease." 

The  long  journey  across  the  Western  States  (by 
the  Santa  Fe  route)  was  full  of  interest  at  every 
point.  Even  the  monotony  of  the  Middle  West  was 
not  wearisome,  while  the  scenery  and  scenes  in 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona  were  fascinating  in  the 
extreme. 

Mr.  Burroughs  had  been  to  the  Far  West  by  a 
northern  route,  but  this  was  all  fresh  territory  to 
him,  and  he  brought  to  it  his  usual  keen  appetite 
for  new  phases  of  nature,  made  still  keener  by  a 
recently  awakened  interest  in  geological  subjects. 
It  enhanced  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  the  trip  a 
hundredfold  to  get  his  first  impressions  of  the  mov 
ing  panorama,  as  I  did  when  he  dictated  notes  to 
me  from  his  diary,  or  descriptive  letters  to  his  wife 
and  son.  The  impression  one  gets  out  there  of 
earth  sculpture  in  process  is  one  of  the  chief  attrac 
tions  of  the  region,  and  Mr.  Burroughs  never  tired 
of  studying  the  physiognomy  of  the  land,  and  the 
overwhelming  evidences  of  time  and  change,  and 
of  contrasting  these  with  our  still  older,  maturer 
landscapes  in  the  East. 

229 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

In  passing  through  Kansas  he  commented  on 
the  monotonous  level  expanse  of  country  as  being 
unbearable  from  any  point  of  view  except  as  good 
farm  land.  Used  to  hills  and  mountains,  inviting 
brooks  and  winding  roads,  he  turned  away  from 
this  unpicturesque  land,  saying  if  it  was  a  good 
place  to  make  money,  it  was  also  a  place  to  lose 
one's  own  soul  —  he  was  already  homesick  for  the 
beauty  and  diversity  of  our  more  winsome  country. 

Two  days'  journey  from  Chicago  and  we  reached 
the  desert  town  of  Adamana.  As  the  train  stopped 
near  the  little  inn,  a  voice  called  out  in  the  dark 
ness,  "Hello,  Johnnie,  is  that  you?" 

"  Yes,  John  Muir  ";  and  there  under  the  big  dip 
per,  on  the  great  Arizona  desert,  the  two  friends 
met  after  a  lapse  of  ten  years. 

"  Muir,  are  n't  you  surprised  to  find  me  with  two 
women  in  my  wake?"  asked  Mr.  Burroughs,  intro 
ducing  us. 

"Yes;  surprised  that  there  are  only  two, 
Johnnie."  Then  to  us,  "Up  in  Alaska  there  were 
a  dozen  or  two  following  him  around,  tucking  him 
up  in  steamer  rugs,  putting  pillows  to  his  head, 
running  to  him  with  a  flower,  or  a  description  of 
a  bird  —  Oh,  two  is  a  very  moderate  number, 
Johnnie,  but  we  '11  manage  to  worry  through  with 
them,  somehow."  And  picking  up  part  of  our 
luggage,  the  tall,  grizzly  Scot  led  the  way  to  the  inn. 

230 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

The  next  day  we  drove  nine  miles  over  the  roll 
ing  desert  to  visit  one  of  the  petrified  forests,  of 
which  there  are  five  in  that  vicinity.  Blended  with 
the  unwonted  scenes  —  the  gray  sands  dotted  with 
sagebrush  and  greasewood,  the  leaping  jack  rab 
bits,  the  frightened  bands  of  half-wild  horses, 
the  distant  buttes  and  mesas,  and  the  brilliant  blue 
of  the  Arizona  sky  —  is  the  memory  of  that  talk 
of  Mr.  Muir's  during  the  long  drive,  a  talk  which 
for  range  and  raciness  I  have  never  heard  equaled. 
He  often  uses  the  broad  dialect  of  the  Scot,  trans 
lating  as  he  goes  along.  His  forte  is  in  monologue. 
He  is  a  most  engaging  talker,  —  discursive,  grave 
and  gay,  —  mingling  thrilling  adventures,  side 
splitting  anecdotes,  choice  quotations,  apt  char 
acterizations,  scientific  data,  enthusiastic  descrip 
tions,  sarcastic  comments,  scornful  denunciations, 
inimitable  mimicry. 

Mr.  Burroughs,  on  the  contrary,  is  not  a  ready 
talker;  he  gives  of  his  best  in  his  books.  He 
establishes  intimate  relations  with  his  reader,  Mr. 
Muir  with  his  listener.  He  is  more  fond  of  an 
interchange  of  ideas  than  is  Mr.  Muir;  is  not  the 
least  inclined  to  banter  or  to  get  the  better  of  one; 
is  so  averse  to  witnessing  discomfiture  that  even 
when  forced  into  an  argument,  he  is  loath  to 
push  it  to  the  bitter  end.  Yet  when  he  does 
engage  in  argument,  he  drives  things  home  with 

231 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

very  telling  force,  especially  when  writing  on  de 
batable  points. 

As  we  drove  along  the  desert,  Mr.  Muir  pointed 
to  a  lofty  plateau  toward  which  we  were  tending, 

—  "  Robbers'  Roost,"  —  where  sheep-stealers  hie 
themselves,  commanding  the  view  for  hundreds  of 
miles  in  every  direction.   I  wish  I  could  make  vivid 
the  panorama  we  saw  from  this  vantage-ground 

—  the  desert  in  the  foreground,  and  far  away 
against  the  sky  the  curiously  carved  pink  and 
purple  and  lilac  mountains,   while  immediately 
below  us  lay  the  dry  river-bed  over  which  a  gaunt 
raven  flew  and  croaked  ominously,  and  a  little 
beyond  rose  the  various  buttes,  mauve  and  terra 
cotta   colored,   from  whose  sides   and   at  whose 
bases  projected  the  petrified  trees.   There  lay  the 
giant  trees,  straight  and  tapering  —  no  branching 
as  in  our  trees  of  to-day.    The  trunks  are  often 
flattened,  as*  though  they  had  been  under  great 
pressure,  often  the  very  bark  seemed  to  be  on  them 
(though  it  was  petrified  bark),  and  on  some  we 
saw  marks  of  insect  tracery  like  those  made  by  the 
borers  of  to-day.    Some  of  the  trunks  were  more 
than  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  and  five  to 
seven  feet  in  diameter,  prostrate  but  intact,  look 
ing  as  though  uprooted  where  they  lay.    Others 
were  broken  at  regular  intervals,  as  though  sawed 
into  stove  lengths.  In  places  the  ground  looks  like 

232 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

a  chip-yard,  the  chips  dry  and  white  as  though 
bleached  by  the  sun.  The  eye  is  deceived;  chips 
these  surely  are,  you  think,  but  the  ear  corrects 
this  impression,  for  as  your  feet  strike  the  frag 
ments,  the  clinking  sound  proves  that  they  are 
stone.  In  some  of  the  other  forests,  visited  later, 
the  chips  and  larger  fragments,  and  the  interior 
of  the  trunks,  are  gorgeously  colored,  so  that  we 
walked  on  a  natural  mosaic  of  jasper,  chalcedony, 
onyx,  and  agate.  In  many  fragments  the  cell-struc 
ture  of  the  wood  is  still  visible,  but  in  others  nature 
has  carried  the  process  further,  and  crystallization 
has  transformed  the  wood  of  these  old,  old  trees 
into  the  brilliant  fragments  we  can  have  for  the 
carrying — "beautiful  wood  replaced  by  beautiful 
stone,"  as  Mr.  Muir  was  fond  of  saying. 

With  what  wonder  and  incredulity  we  roamed 
about  witnessing  the  strange  spectacle !  —  the  pros 
trate  monarchs  with  hearts  of  jasper  and  chalced 
ony,  now  silent  and  rigid  in  this  desolate  region 
where  they  basked  in  the  sunlight  and  swayed  in 
the  winds  millions  of  years  ago.  Only  a  small  part 
of  the  old  forest  is  as  yet  exposed;  these  trees, 
buried  for  ages  beneath  the  early  seas,  becoming 
petrified  as  they  lay,  are,  after  ages  more,  gradu 
ally  being  unearthed  as  the  softer  parts  of  the  soil 
covering  them  wears  away. 

The  scenic  aspects  of  the  place,  the  powerful 
233 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

appeal  it  made  to  the  imagination,  the  evidences  of 
infinite  time,  the  wonderful  metamorphosis  from 
vegetable  life  to  these  petrified  remains  which  copy 
so  faithfully  the  form  and  structure  of  the  living 
trees,  were  powerfully  enhanced  by  the  sight  of 
these  two  men  wandering  amid  these  ruins  of 
Carboniferous  time,  sometimes  in  earnest  conver 
sation,  oftener  in  silence;  again  in  serious  question 
from  the  one  and  perhaps  bantering  answer  from 
the  other;  for  although  Mr.  Burroughs  was  in 
tensely  interested  in  this  spectacle,  and  full  of 
cogitations  and  questions  as  to  the  cause  and 
explanation  of  it  all,  Mr.  Muir  was  not  disposed 
to  treat  questions  seriously. 

"  Oh,  get  a  primer  of  geology,  Johnnie,"  he  would 
say  when  the  earnest  Eastern  student  would  ask 
for  a  solution  of  some  of  the  puzzles  arising  in  his 
mind  —  a  perversity  that  was  especially  annoying, 
since  the  Scot  had  carefully  explored  these  regions, 
and  was  doubtless  well  equipped  to  adduce  reason 
able  explanations  had  he  been  so  minded.  That 
very  forest  to  which  we  went  on  that  first  day,  and 
where  we  ate  our  luncheon  from  the  trunk  of  a 
great  petrified  Sigillaria,  had  been  discovered  by 
Mr.  Muir  and  his  daughter  a  few  years  before  as 
they  were  riding  over  the  sandy  plateau.  He  told 
us  how  excited  he  was  that  night  —  he  could  not 
sleep,  but  lay  awake  trying  to  restore  the  living 

234 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

forest  in  imagination,  for,  from  the  petrified  re 
mains,  he  could  tell  to  what  order  these  giants 
belonged. 

When  others  congregate  to  eat,  the  Scot  seems 
specially  impelled  to  talk.  With  a  fine  disregard  for 
food,  he  sat  and  crumbled  dry  bread,  occasionally 
putting  a  bit  in  his  mouth,  talking  while  the  eating 
was  going  on.  He  is  likewise  independent  of  sleep. 
"Sleep!"  he  would  exclaim,  when  the  rest  of  us, 
after  a  long  day  of  sight-seeing,  would  have  to 
yield  to  our  sense  of  fatigue,  "  why,  you  can  sleep 
when  you  get  back  home,  or,  at  least,  in  the 
grave." 

Mr.  Burroughs,  on  the  contrary,  is  specially 
dependent  upon  sleep  and  food  in  order  to  do  his 
work  or  to  enjoy  anything.  On  our  arrival  at  the 
Grand  Canon  in  the  morning,  after  a  night  of 
travel  and  fasting,  all  the  rest  of  us  felt  the  need  of 
refreshing  ourselves  and  taking  breakfast  before 
we  would  even  take  a  peep  at  the  great  rose-purple 
abyss  out  there  a  few  steps  from  the  hotel,  but  the 
teasing  Scot  jeered  at  us  for  thinking  of  eating 
when  there  was  that  sublime  spectacle  to  be  seen. 
When  we  did  go  out  to  the  rim,  Mr.  Muir  preceded 
us,  and,  as  we  approached,  waved  toward  the  great 
abyss  and  said:  "There!  Empty  your  heads  of  all 
vanity,  and  look!"  And  we  did  look,  overwhelmed 
by  what  must  be  the  most  truly  sublime  spectacle 

235 


OUK  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

this  earth  has  to  offer  —  a  veritable  terrestrial 
Book  of  Revelation,  as  Mr.  Burroughs  said. 

We  followed  a  little  path  along  the  rim,  led  by 
Mr.  Muir,  to  where  we  could  escape  from  the  other 
sight-seers,  and  there  we  sat  on  the  rocks,  though 
the  snow  lay  in  patches  on  the  ground  that  bright 
February  day.  Mr.  Burroughs  made  a  fire  of  ju 
niper  brush,  and  as  the  fragrant  incense  rose  on 
the  air,  with  that  wondrous  spectacle  before  our 
eyes,  we  listened  to  Mr.  Muir  reciting  some  lines 
from  Milton  —  almost  the  only  poet  one  would 
think  of  quoting  in  the  presence  of  such  solemn, 
awful  beauty. 

Mr.  Muir  tried  to  dissuade  us  the  next  day  from 
going  down  into  the  canon:  "Don't  straddle  a 
mule  and  poke  your  noses  down  to  the  ground,  and 
plunge  down  that  dangerous  icy  trail,  imagining, 
because  you  get  a  few  shivers  down  your  backs, 
you  are  seeing  the  glories  of  the  canon,  or  getting 
any  conception  of  the  noble  river  that  made  it. 
You  must  climb,  climb,  to  see  the  glories,  always." 
But  when  Mr.  Burroughs  would  ask  him  where  we 
could  climb  to,  to  see  the  canon,  since  under  his 
guidance  we  had  been  brought  to  the  very  edge  on 
the  top,  he  did  not  deign  to  explain,  but  continued 
to  deride  the  project  of  the  descent  into  the  depths 
—  a  way  the  dear  man  has  of  meeting  an  argument 
that  is  a  bit  annoying  at  times. 

236 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

We  did  go  down  into  the  cafion  on  mule-back,  — 
down,  down,  over  four  thousand  feet,  —  and  the 
jeering  Scot  went  with  us,  sitting  his  mule  uncom 
promisingly,  and  indulging  in  many  a  jest  at  the 
expense  of  the  terrified  women  who  felt,  when  too 
late  to  retreat,  that  it  would  have  been  better  to 
heed  his  advice.  Still,  after  the  descent,  and  then 
the  ascent,  were  safely  accomplished,  we  were 
glad  we  had  not  let  him  dissuade  us.  None  of  us 
can  ever  forget  that  day,  with  its  rich  and  varied 
experiences,  the  mingled  fear  and  awe  and  exulta 
tion,  the  overpowering  emotions  felt  at  each  new 
revelation  of  the  stupendous  spectacle,  often  re 
lieved  by  the  lively  sallies  of  Mr.  Muir.  We  ate 
our  luncheon  on  the  old  Cambrian  plateau,  the 
mighty  Colorado,  still  a  thousand  feet  below  us, 
looking  entirely  inadequate  to  have  accomplished 
the  tremendous  results  we  were  witnessing. 

One  day  at  the  canon,  feeling  acutely  aware  of 
our  incalculable  privilege,  I  said,  "To  think  of 
having  the  Grand  Canon,  and  John  Burroughs  and 
John  Muir  thrown  in!" 

,  "I  wish  Muir  was  thrown  in,  sometimes,"  re 
torted  Mr.  Burroughs,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"  when  he  gets  between  me  and  the  canon." 

In  contrast  to  Mr.  Muir,  the  Wanderer,  is  Mr. 
Burroughs,  the  Home-lover,  one  who  is  under  the 

237 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

spell  of  the  near  and  the  familiar.  The  scenes  of 
his  boyhood  in  the  Catskills,  the  woods  he  wan 
dered  in  about  Washington  during  the  years  he 
dwelt  there,  his  later  tramping-ground  along  the 
Hudson  —  these  are  the  scenes  he  has  made  his 
readers  love  because  he  has  loved  them  so  much 
himself;  and  however  we  may  enjoy  his  journey- 
ings  in  ''Mellow  England,"  in  "  Green  Alaska,"  in 
Jamaica,  or  his  philosophical  or  speculative  essays, 
we  find  his  stay-at-home  things  the  best.  And  he 
likes  the  familiar  scenes  and  things  the  best,  much 
as  he  enjoyed  the  wonders  that  the  great  West 
offered.  The  robins  in  Yosemite  Valley  and  the 
skylarks  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  because  these 
were  a  part  of  his  earlier  associations,  did  more  to 
endear  these  places  to  him  than  did  the  wonders 
themselves.  On  Hawaii,  where  we  saw  the  world's 
greatest  active  volcano  throwing  up  its  fountains 
of  molten  lava  sixty  or  more  feet  high,  the  masses 
falling  with  a  roar  like  that  of  the  "  husky-voiced 
sea,"  Mr.  Burroughs  found  it  difficult  to  under 
stand  why  some  of  us  were  so  fascinated  that  we 
wanted  to  stay  all  night,  willing  to  endure  the 
discomforts  of  a  resting-place  on  lava  rocks,  occa 
sional  stifling  gusts  of  sulphur  fumes,  dripping  rain, 
and  heat  that  scorched  our  veiled  faces,  so  long 
as  we  could  gaze  on  that  boiling,  tumbling,  heav 
ing,  ever-changing  lake  of  fire.  Such  wild,  terrible, 


JOHN    MUIR   AND   JOHN    BURROUGHS,    PASADENA,    CALIFORNIA 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

unfamiliar  beauty  could  not  long  hold  him  under 
its  spell. 

A  veritable  homesickness  came  over  him  amid 
unfamiliar  scenes.  One  day  in  early  March,  after 
journeying  all  day  over  the  strange  region  of  the 
California  desert,  with  its  giant  cacti,  its  lava-beds, 
its  volcanic  cones,  its  rugged,  barren  mountains, 
its  deep  gorges  and  canons,  its  snow-capped  peaks, 
on  reaching  San  Bernardino,  so  green  and  fresh 
and  smiling  in  the  late  afternoon  sun,  and  riding 
through  miles  and  miles  of  orange  groves  to  River 
side,  this  return  to  a  winsome  nature  (though  unlike 
his  own),  after  so  much  of  the  forbidding  aspect 
had  been  before  us,  was  to  Mr.  Burroughs  like 
water  brooks  to  the  thirsty  hart. 

His  abiding  love  for  early  friends,  too,  crops  out 
on  all  occasions.  Twice  while  away  on  this  trip 
he  received  the  proffer  of  honorary  degrees  from 
two  of  our  American  universities.  Loath  to  accept 
such  honors  at  any  time,  he  was  especially  so  now, 
and  declined,  defending  himself  by  saying  that  the 
acceptance  would  have  necessitated  his  hurrying 
straight  home  across  the  States  to  have  the  degrees 
conferred  upon  him,  when  he  was  planning  to 
tarry  in  Iowa  and  see  an  old  schoolmate. 

"  I  did  n't  want  to  do  it,"  he  said  petulantly;  "  I 
wanted  to  stop  and  see  Sandy  Smith  "  —  his  tone 
being  not  unlike  what  he  would  have  used  when  as 

239 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

a  boy  he  doubtless  coaxed  to  "go  out  and  play 
with  Sandy." 

Mr.  Burroughs  is  too  much  a  follower  of  the 
genuinely  simple  life  to  be  long  contented  in  hotels, 
however  genial  the  hospitality.  He  declared  the 
elegant  suite  at  the  Mission  Inn  at  Riverside, 
which  was  tendered  to  him  and  his  party  in  the 
most  cordial,  unobtrusive  way,  was  too  luxurious 
for  a  "  Slabsider  "  like  him.  It  was  positively  pain 
ful  to  him  to  be  asked,  as  he  was  frequently  on  the 
Western  and  Hawaiian  tour,  to  address  audiences, 
or  "just  to  come  and  meet  the  students"  at  vari 
ous  schools  and  colleges.  Such  meetings  usually 
meant  being  "  roped  in"  to  making  a  speech,  often 
in  spite  of  assurances  to  the  contrary.  I  have 
known  him  to  slip  away  from  a  men's  club  early 
in  the  evening,  before  dinner  was  announced,  and 
return  to  our  little  cottage  in  Pasadena,  where  he 
would  munch  contentedly  an  uncooked  wafer, 
drink  a  cup  of  hot  water,  read  a  little  geology, 
and  go  to  bed  at  the  seasonable  hour  of  nine,  the 
next  morning  awakening  with  a  keen  appetite  for 
the  new  day,  for  his  breakfast,  and  for  his  fore 
noon  of  work,  whereas,  had  he  stayed  out  till 
eleven  or  twelve,  eaten  a  hearty  dinner,  and  been 
stimulated  and  excited  by  much  talk,  he  would 
have  awakened  without  the  joy  in  the  morning 
which  he  has  managed  to  carry  through  his  seventy- 

240 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

six  years,  and  which  his  readers,  who  rejoice  in 
the  freshness  and  tranquillity  of  his  pages,  hope 
he  will  keep  till  he  reaches  the  end  of  the  Long 
Road. 

Mr.  Muir  is  as  averse  to  speaking  in  public  as 
is  Mr.  Burroughs,  much  as  he  likes  to  talk.  They 
both  dislike  the  noise  and  confusion  of  cities,  and 
what  we  ordinarily  mean  by  social  life.  Mr. 
Burroughs  is  less  an  alien  in  cities  than  is  Mr. 
Muir,  yet,  on  the  whole,  he  is  more  of  a  solitaire, 
more  of  a  recluse.  He  avoids  men  where  the  other 
seeks  them.  He  cannot  deal  or  dicker  with  men, 
but  the  canny  Scot  can  do  this,  if  need  be,  and  even 
enjoy  it.  Circumstances  seem  to  have  made  Mr. 
Muir  spend  most  of  his  years  apart  from  his  fellows, 
although  by  nature  he  is  decidedly  gregarious; 
circumstances  seem  to  have  decreed  that  Mr. 
Burroughs  spend  the  greater  part  of  his  life  among 
his  fellow-men,  though  there  is  much  of  the  hermit 
in  his  make-up. 

Mr.  Muir  gets  lost  in  cities  —  this  man  who  can 
find  his  way  on  the  trackless  desert,  the  untrodden 
glaciers,  and  in  the  most  remote  and  inaccessible 
mountain  heights.  He  will  never  admit  that  his 
wanderings  were  lonely:  "You  can  always  have 
the  best  part  of  your  friends  with  you,"  he  said; 
"  it  is  only  when  people  cease  to  love  that  they  are 

separated." 

241 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

One  Sunday  in  Pasadena  we  had  planned  to 
have  a  picnic  up  one  of  the  canons,  but  the  rain 
decreed  otherwise.  So,  discarding  tables  and  other 
appurtenances  of  life  within  doors,  we  picnicked 
on  the  floor  of  our  sitting-room,  making  merry 
there  with  the  luncheon  we  had  prepared  for  the 
jaunt.  While  passing  back  and  forth  through  the 
room  in  our  preparations,  we  heard  the  men  of 
the  party  talk  in  fragments,  and  amusing  fragments 
they  were.  Once  when  Mr.  Browne,  the  editor  of 
the  "  Dial,"  was  discussing  some  point  in  connec 
tion  with  the  Spanish-American  War,  I  heard  Mr. 
Muir  say,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "I  was  getting 
flowers  up  on  the  Tuolumne  meadows  then,  and 
did  n't  have  to  bother  about  those  questions." 
When  another  friend  was  criticizing  Mr.  Roosevelt 
for  the  reputed  slaughter  of  so  many  animals  in 
Africa,  and  Mr.  Burroughs  declared  he  did  not 
credit  half  the  things  the  papers  said  the  hunter 
was  doing,  Mr.  Muir  said,  half  chidingly,  half 
tolerantly,  "  Roosevelt,  the  muggins,  I  am  afraid 
he  is  having  a  good  time  putting  bullets  through 
those  friends  of  his."  Now  I  had  heard  him  call 
Mr.  Burroughs  "You  muggins"  in  the  same  win 
ning,  endearing  way  he  said  "Johnnie";  I  had 
heard  him  speak  of  a  petrified  tree  in  the  Sigillaria 
forest  as  a  "muggins";  of  a  bear  that  trespassed 
on  his  flowery  domains  in  the  Sierra  meadows  as  a 

242 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

"muggins"  that  he  tried  to  look  out  of  counte 
nance  and  failed;  of  a  "comical  little  muggins  of  a 
daisy"  that  some  one  had  named  after  him;  and 
one  day  he  had  rejoiced  my  heart  by  dubbing  me 
"  You  muggins,  you  " ;  and  behold !  here  he  was  now 
applying  the  elastic  term  to  our  many-sided  (I  did 
not  say  "strenuous")  ex-President!  Later  I  heard 
him  apply  it  to  a  Yosemite  waterfall,  and  by  then 
should  not  have  been  surprised  to  hear  him  speak 
of  a  mighty  glacier,  or  a  giant  sequoia,  as  a 
"muggins." 

"  Stickeen,"  Mr.  Muir's  incomparable  dog  story, 
came  out  in  book  form  while  we  were  in  Pasadena. 
I  sent  a  copy  to  my  brother,  who  wrote  later 
asking  me  to  inquire  of  Mr.  Muir  why  he  did 
not  keep  Stickeen  after  their  perilous  adventures 
together.  So  I  put  the  question  to  him  one  day. 
"Keep  him!"  he  ejaculated,  as  he  straightened  his 
back,  and  the  derisive  wrinkles  appeared  on  one 
side  of  his  nose;  "keep  him!  he  wasn't  mine  — 
I  'm  Scotch,  I  never  steal."  Then  he  explained  that 
Stickeen's  real  master  was  attached  to  him;  that 
he  could  not  take  him  from  him;  and  besides,  the 
dog  was  accustomed  to  a  cold  climate,  and  would 
have  been  very  unhappy  in  California.  "Oh,  no, 
I  could  n't  keep  Stickeen,"  he  said  wistfully,  but 
one  felt  that  he  had  kept  Stickeen,  the  best  part  of 
him,  by  immortalizing  him  in  that  story. 

243 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

While  we  were  housekeeping  in  Pasadena,  Mr. 
Burroughs  began  writing  on  the  Grand  Canon. 
One  morning,  after  having  disposed  of  several 
untimely  callers,  he  had  finally  settled  down  to 
work.  We  sat  around  the  big  table  writing  or 
reading.  Mr.  Burroughs  was  there  in  the  body, 
but  in  spirit  we  could  see  he  was  at  the  "Divine 
Abyss,"  as  he  called  the  Canon.  Once  he  read  us 
a  few  sentences  which  were  so  good  that  I  resolved 
we  must  try  harder  to  prevent  interruptions,  that 
he  might  keep  all  his  writing  up  to  that  standard. 
But  while  engaged  in  letter-writing,  some  point 
arose,  and,  forgetting  my  laudable  resolution,  I 
put  a  question  to  him.  Answering  me  abstractedly, 
he  went  on  with  his  writing.  Then  I  realized  how 
inexcusable  it  was  to  intrude  my  trivialities  at 
such  a  time.  Castigating  myself  and  resolving 
anew,  I  wrote  on  hi  contrite  silence.  After  a  little 
Mr.  Burroughs  paused  and  lifted  his  head;  his 
expression  was  puzzled,  as  though  wrestling  with 
some  profound  thought,  or  weighing  some  nicety 
of  expression;  I  saw  he  was  about  to  speak  —  per 
haps  to  utter  his  latest  impression  concerning  the 
glories  of  the  Canon.  As  he  opened  his  lips  this  is 
what  we  heard:  "Could  n't  we  warm  up  those  Sara 
toga  chips  for  luncheon?"  Whereupon  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  abyss  he  was  then  cogitating  about 
was  in  the  epigastric  region,  instead  of  in  Arizona. 

244 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

Mr.  Muir  likes  a  laugh  at  his  own  expense.  He 
told  us  of  a  school-teacher  in  the  vicinity  of  his 
home  instructing  her  pupils  about  Alaska  and  the 
glaciers;  and  on  telling  them  that  the  great  Muir 
Glacier  was  named  after  their  neighbor,  who  dis 
covered  it,  one  little  boy  piped  up  with,  "What, 
not  that  old  man  that  drives  around  in  a  buggy!" 

I  may  as  well  offset  this  with  one  of  our  Hawaiian 
experiences.  Wlien  we  were  in  Honolulu,  we  heard 
that  one  of  the  teachers  there,  thinking  to  make  a 
special  impression  upon  her  pupils,  told  them  the 
main  facts  about  Mr.  Burroughs's  writings,  their 
scope  and  influence,  what  he  stood  for  as  a  nature 
writer,  his  place  in  literature,  and  then  described 
his  appearance,  and  said,  "And  this  noted  man, 
this  great  nature  lover,  is  right  here  —  a  guest  in 
our  city!"  A  little  lad  broke  in  with,  "I  know  —  I 
saw  him  yesterday  —  he  was  in  our  yard  stealing 
mangoes." 

One  day,  while  still  in  Pasadena,  I  told  Mr.  Muir 
that  on  April  3d  a  few  of  us  wished  to  celebrate 
Mr.  Burroughs's  birthday,  his  seventy-second,  by 
a  picnic  up  one  of  the  Mount  Lowe  canons.  He 
said  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  be  with  us 
on  that  day,  as  he  had  to  go  up  to  San  Francisco. 
On  my  expressing  keen  disappointment  he  teas- 
ingly  said:  — 

245 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

"Why,  you  will  have  Johnnie,  and  Mr.  Browne, 
and  the  mountains  —  what  more  do  you  want?" 

"But  we  want  you,"  I  protested,  assuring  him 
that  this  was  not  a  case  where  one  could  say,  — 

"How  happy  could  I  be  with  either, 
Were  t'  other  dear  Johnnie  away !;" 

''Well,  then,  why  can't  you  have  it  some  other 
day?" 

"Because  he  was  n't  born' some  other  day." 

"But  why  must  you  be  tied  to  the  calendar? 
Can't  you  celebrate  Johnnie's  birthday  a  few  days 
later  just  as  well?  Such  a  stickler  for  the  exact 
date  as  you  are,  I  never  saw." 

Thus  he  bantered,  but  when  he  had  to  leave 
us,  we  knew  he  was  as  disappointed  as  we  all 
were  that  he  could  not  be  with  us  on  that  "exact 
date." 

How  he  did  enjoy  hectoring  us  for  our  absurd 
mistake  in  not  reading  our  long  tickets  through, 
consequently  getting  on  the  Santa  Fe  train  to  go 
up  to  San  Francisco  when  a  little  coupon  stated 
that  the  ticket  took  us  by  the  Coast  line.  We  were 
bound  to  let  the  Scot  know  of  our  mistake,  and  our 
necessary  transfer  to  the  other  road  (as  we  had 
arranged  to  meet  him  at  a  certain  point  on  the 
Santa  Fe),  else,  I  suppose,  we  never  should  have 
given  him  that  chance  to  jeer  at  us.  He  made  us 

246 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

tell  him  all  about  it  when  we  met,  and  shaking 
with  laughter  at  all  the  complications  the  mistake 
entailed,  he  declared,  "Oh,  but  that's  a  bully 
story!" 

"  It  '11  put  an  inch  of  fat  on  Muir's  ribs,"  retorted 
"Oom  John,"  who  was  not  without  chagrin  at  the 
fiasco. 

"  Johnnie,  when  you  sail  for  Honolulu,  I  expect, 
unless  you  're  narrowly  watched,  you  '11  get  on  the 
wrong  ship  and  go  off  to  Vancouver,"  teased  the 
fun-loving  Scot. 

In  Yosemite,  Mr.  Muir  told  us  about  the  great 
trees  he  used  to  saw  into  timber  during  his  early 
years  in  the  valley,  showing  us  the  site  of  his  old 
mill,  and  bragging  that  he  built  it  and  kept  it  in 
repair  at  a  cost  of  less  than  twenty-five  cents  a 
year.  It  seemed  strange  that  he,  a  tree-lover,  could 
have  cut  down  those  noble  spruces  and  firs,  and  I 
whispered  this  to  Mr.  Burroughs. 

"Ask  him  about  it,"  said  the  latter,  "ask  him." 
So  I  did. 

"  Bless  you,  I  never  cut  down  the  trees  —  I  only 
sawed  those  the  Lord  had  felled." 

The  storms  that  swept  down  the  mountains 
had  laid  these  monarchs  low,  and  the  thrifty  Scot 
had  merely  taken  advantage  of  the  ill  winds,  at  the 
same  time  helping  nature  to  get  rid  of  the  debris. 

247 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

"How  does  this  compare  with  Esopus  Valley, 
Johnnie?"  Mr.  Muir  was  fond  of  asking  Mr. 
Burroughs,  when  he  saw  the  latter  gazing  in  admi 
ration  at  mighty  El  Capitan,  or  the  thundering 
Yosemite  Falls.  Or  he  would  say,  "How  is  that 
for  a  piece  of  glacial  work,  Johnnie?"  as  he  pointed 
to  Half  Dome  and  told  how  the  glacier  had  worn 
off  at  least  half  a  mile  from  its  top,  and  then  had 
sawed  right  down  through  the  valley. 

"O  Lord!  that's  too  much,  Muir,"  answered 
Mr.  Burroughs.  He  declared  that  it  stuck  in  his 
crop  —  this  theory  that  ice  alone  accounts  for  this 
great  valley  cut  out  of  the  solid  rocks.  When  the 
Scot  would  get  to  riding  his  ice-hobby  too  hard, 
Mr.  Burroughs  would  query,  "But,  Muir,  the 
million  years  before  the  ice  age  —  what  was  going 
on  here  then?' 

"Oh,  God  knows,"  said  Mr.  Muir,  but  vouch 
safed  no  further  explanation. 

"With  my  itch  for  geology,"  said  Mr.  Burroughs, 
"  I  want  it  scratched  all  the  time,  and  Muir  does  n't 
want  to  scratch  it."  So  he  dropped  his  questions, 
which  elicited  only  bantering  answers  from  the 
mountaineer,  and  gave  himself  up  to  sheer  admi 
ration  of  the  glories  and  beauties  of  the  region, 
declaring  that  of  all  the  elemental  scenes  he  had 
beheld,  Yosemite  beat  them  all  —  "  The  perpetual 
thunder  peal  of  the  waters  dashing  like  mad  over 

248 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

gigantic  cliffs,  the  elemental  granite  rocks  —  it  is 
a  veritable  *  wreck  of  matter  and  crush  of  worlds' 
that  we  see  here." 

Mr.  Burroughs  urged  Mr.  Muir  again  and  again 
to  reclaim  his  early  studies  in  the  Sierra  which  were 
printed  in  the  "Overland  Monthly"  years  ago, 
and  give  them  to  the  public  now  with  the  digested 
information  which  he  alone  can  supply,  and  which 
is  as  yet  inaccessible  in  his  voluminous  notes  and 
sketches  of  the  region.  At  Mr.  Muir's  home  we  saw 
literally  barrels  of  these  notes.  He  admitted  that 
he  had  always  been  dilatory  about  writing,  but 
not  about  studying  or  note-taking;  often  making 
notes  at  night  when  fatigued  from  climbing  and 
from  two  and  three  days'  fasting;  but  the  putting 
of  them  into  literature  is  irksome  to  him.  Yet, 
much  as  he  dislikes  the  labor  of  writing,  he  will 
shut  himself  away  from  the  air  and  sunshine  for 
weeks  at  a  time,  if  need  arises,  and  write  vigor 
ously  in  behalf  of  the  preservation  of  our  forests. 
He  did  this  back  in  the  late  seventies,  and  in  more 
recent  years  has  been  tireless  in  his  efforts  to  se 
cure  protection  to  our  noble  forests  when  danger 
has  threatened  them. 

Mr.  Muir's  knowledge  of  the  physiognomy  and 
botany  of  most  of  the  countries  of  the  globe  is 
extensive,  and  he  has  recently  added  South 

249 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

America  and  South  Africa  to  his  list;  there  is  prob 
ably  no  man  living,  and  but  few  who  have  lived, 
so  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  effects  of  glacia- 
tion  as  is  he;  yet,  unless  he  puts  his  observations 
into  writing,  much  of  his  intimate  knowledge  of 
these  things  must  be  lost  when  he  passes  on.  And, 
as  Mr.  Burroughs  says,  "The  world  wants  this 
knowledge  seasoned  with  John  Muir,  not  his  mere 
facts.  He  could  accumulate  enough  notes  to  fill 
Yosemite,  yet  that  would  be  worth  little.  He  has 
spent  years  studying  and  sketching  the  rocks, 
and  noting  facts  about  them,  but  you  can't  recon 
struct  beauty  and  sublimity  out  of  mere  notes  and 
sketches.  He  must  work  his  harvest  into  bread." 
But  concerning  this  writing  Mr.  Muir  confesses 
he  feels  the  hopelessness  of  giving  his  readers 
anything  but  crumbs  from  the  great  table  God  has 
spread:  "I  can  write  only  hints  to  incite  good 
wanderers  to  come  to  the  feast." 

Here  we  see  the  marked  contrast  between  these 
two  nature  students:  Mr.  Muir  talks  because 
he  can't  help  it,  and  his  talk  is  good  literature; 
he  writes  only  because  he  has  to,  on  occasion;  while 
Mr.  Burroughs  writes  because  he  can't  help  it, 
and  talks  when  he  can't  get  out  of  it.  Mr.  Muir, 
the  Wanderer,  needs  a  continent  to  roam  in;  while 
Mr.  Burroughs,  the  Saunterer,  needs  only  a  neigh 
borhood  or  a  farm.  The  Wanderer  is  content  to 

250 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

scale  mountains;  the  Saunterer  really  climbs  the 
mountain  after  he  gets  home,  as  he  makes  it  truly 
his  own  only  by  dreaming  over  it  and  writing  about 
it.  The  Wanderer  finds  writing  irksome;  the 
Saunterer  is  never  so  well  or  so  happy  as  when 
he  can  write;  his  food  nourishes  him  better,  the 
atmosphere  is  sweeter,  the  days  are  brighter.  The 
Wanderer  has  gathered  his  harvest  from  wide 
fields,  just  for  the  gathering;  he  has  not  threshed 
it  out  and  put  it  into  the  bread  of  literature  —  only 
a  few  loaves;  the  Saunterer  has  gathered  his 
harvest  from  a  rather  circumscribed  field,  but  has 
threshed  it  out  to  the  last  sheaf;  has  made  many 
loaves;  and  it  is  because  he  himself  so  enjoys  writ 
ing  that  his  readers  find  such  joy  and  morning 
freshness  in  his  books,  his  own  joy  being  com 
municated  to  his  reader,  as  Mr.  Muir's  own  enthu 
siasm  is  communicated  to  his  hearer.  With  Mr. 
Burroughs,  if  his  field  of  observation  is  closely 
gleaned,  he  turns  aside  into  subjective  fields  and 
philosophizes  —  a  thing  which  Mr.  Muir  never 
does. 

One  of  the  striking  things  about  Mr.  Muir  is  his 
generosity;  and  though  so  poor  in  his  youth  and 
early  adult  life,  he  has  now  the  wherewithal  to  be 
generous.  His  years  of  frugality  have,  strange  to 
say,  made  him  feel  a  certain  contempt  for  money. 

251 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

At  El  Tovar  he  asked,  "  What  boy  brought  up  my 
bags?"  Whereupon  a  string  of  bell-boys  promptly 
appeared  for  their  fees,  and  Mr.  Muir  handed  out 
tips  to  all  the  waiting  lads,  saying  in  a  droll  way, 
"  I  did  n't  know  I  had  so  many  bags."  WThen  we 
tried  to  reimburse  him  for  the  Yosemite  trip,  he 
would  have  none  of  it,  saying,  almost  peevishly, 
"Now  don't  annoy  me  about  that."  Yet,  if  he 
thinks  one  is  trying  to  get  the  best  of  him,  he 
can  look  after  the  shekels  as  well  as  any  one.  One 
day  in  Yosemite  when  we  were  to  go  for  an  all 
day's  tramp  and  wished  a  luncheon  prepared  at 
the  hotel,  on  learning  of  the  price  they  were  to 
charge,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  landlord  and 
dispatched  one  of  us  to  the  little  store,  where,  for 
little  more  than  the  hotel  would  have  charged  for 
one  person,  a  luncheon  for  five  was  procured,  and 
then  he  really  chuckled  that  he  had  been  able  to 
snap  his  fingers  at  mine  host,  who  had  thought  he 
had  us  at  his  mercy. 

I  see  I  have  kept  Mr.  Muir  close  to  the  footlights 
most  of  the  time,  allowing  Mr.  Burroughs  to  hover 
in  the  background  where  he  blends  with  the 
neutral  tones;  but  so  it  was  in  all  the  thrilling 
scenes  in  the  Western  drama  —  Mr.  Muir  and  the 
desert,  Mr.  Muir  and  the  petrified  trees,  Mr.  Muir 
and  the  canon,  Mr.  Muir  and  Yosemite;  while 

252 


CAMPING  WITH  BURROUGHS  AND  MUIR 

with  "  Oom  John,"  it  was  a  blending  with  the  scene, 
a  quiet,  brooding  absorption  that  made  him  seem 
a  part  of  them  —  the  desert,  the  petrified  trees, 
the  Grand  Canon,  Yosemite,  and  Mr.  Burroughs 
inseparably  linked  with  them,  but  seldom  standing 
out  in  sharp  contrast  to  them,  as  the  "Beloved 
Egotist"  stood  out  on  all  occasions. 

Perhaps  the  most  idyllic  of  all  our  days  of  camp 
ing  and  tramping  with  John  of  Birds  and  John 
of  Mountains  was  the  day  in  Yosemite  when  we 
tramped  to  Nevada  and  Vernal  Falls,  a  distance 
of  fourteen  miles,  returning  to  Camp  Ahwahnee 
at  night,  weary  almost  to  exhaustion,  but  strangely 
uplifted  by  the  beauty  and  sublimity  in  which 
we  had  lived  and  moved  and  had  our  being.  Our 
brown  tents  stood  hospitably  open,  and  out  in  the 
great  open  space  in  front  we  sat  around  the  camp- 
fire  under  the  noble  spruces  and  firs,  the  Merced 
flowing  softly  on  our  right,  mighty  Yosemite  Falls 
thundering  away  in  the  distance,  while  the  moon 
rose  over  Sentinel  Rock,  lending  a  touch  of  ineffable 
beauty  to  the  scene,  and  a  voice,  that  is  now  for 
ever  silenced,  lent  to  the  rhymes  of  the  poets  its 
richness  of  varied  emotion,  as  it  chanted  choicest 
selections  from  the  Golden  Poems  of  all  time.  We 
lingered  long  after  the  other  campers  had  gone  to 
rest,  loath  to  bring  to  its  close  a  day  so  replete 

253 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

with  sublimity  and  beauty.  Mr.  Burroughs  summed 
it  up  as  he  said  good-night:  "A  day  with  the 
gods  of  eld  —  a  holy  day  in  the  temple  of  the 
gods." 


JOHN  BURROUGHS:  AN  APPRECIATION 

JOHN  is  making  an  impression  on  his  age — has 
come  to  stay  —  has  veritable,  indisputable, 
dynamic  gifts,"  Walt  Whitman  said  familiarly  to 
a  friend  in  1888,  in  commenting  on  our  subject's 
place  in  literature.  And  of  a  letter  written  to  him 
by  Mr.  Burroughs  that  same  year  he  said:  "It  is 
a  June  letter,  worthy  of  June;  written  in  John's 
best  outdoor  mood.  Why,  it  gets  into  your  blood, 
and  makes  you  feel  worth  while.  I  sit  here,  help 
less  as  I  am,  and  breathe  it  in  like  fresh  air." 

Minot  Savage  once  asked  in  a  sermon  if  it  did 
not  occur  to  his  hearers  that  John  Burroughs  gets 
a  little  more  of  June  than  the  rest  of  us  do,  and 
added  that  Mr.  Burroughs  had  paid  years  of  con 
secration  of  thought  and  patient  study  of  the  lives 
of  birds  and  flowers,  and  so  had  bought  the  right 
to  take  June  and  all  that  it  means  into  his  brain 
and  heart  and  life;  and  that  if  the  rest  of  us  wish 
these  joys,  we  must  purchase  them  on  the  same 
terms.  We  are  often  led  to  ask  what  month  he  has 
not  taken  into  his  heart  and  life,  and  given  out 
again  in  his  writings.  Perhaps  most  of  all  he  has 
taken  April  into  his  heart,  as  his  essay  on  it  in 
"Birds  and  Poets"  will  show:  — 

255 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

How  it  [April]  touches  one  and  makes  him  both  glad 
and  sad!  The  voices  of  the  arriving  birds,  the  migrat 
ing  fowls,  the  clouds  of  pigeons  sweeping  across  the  sky 
or  filling  the  woods,  the  elfin  horn  of  the  first  honey-bee 
venturing  abroad  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  the  clear 
piping  of  the  little  frogs  in  the  marshes  at  sundown,  the 
camp-fire  in  the  sugar-bush,  the  smoke  seen  afar  rising 
over  the  trees,  the  tinge  of  green  that  comes  so  suddenly 
on  the  sunny  knolls  and  slopes,  the  full  translucent 
streams,  the  waxing  and  warming  sun,  —  how  these 
things  and  others  like  them  are  noted  by  the  eager  eye 
and  ear !  April  is  my  natal  month,  and  I  am  born  again 
into  new  delight  and  new  surprises  at  each  return  of  it. 
Its  name  has  an  indescribable  charm  to  me.  Its  two 
syllables  are  like  the  calls  of  the  first  birds,  —  like  that 
of  the  phcebe-bird,  or  of  the  meadowlark. 

But  why  continue?  The  whole  essay  breathes 
of  swelling  buds,  springing  grass,  calls  of  birds, 
April  flowers,  April  odors,  and  April's  uncloying 
freshness  and  charm.  As  we  realize  what  the 
returning  spring  brings  to  this  writer,  we  say  with 
Bliss  Carman:  — 

"  Make  [him]  over,  Mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir." 

I  fancy  there  are  many  of  his  readers  who  will 
echo  what  one  of  his  friends  has  said  to  him:  "  For 
me  the  3d  of  April  will  ever  stand  apart  in  the 
calendar  with  a  poignant  beauty  and  sweetness  be 
cause  it  is  your  birthday.  It  is  the  keynote  to  which 

256 


AN  APPRECIATION 

the  whole  springtime  music  is  set."  Or  another: 
"  If  April  3d  comes  in  like  any  other  day,  please 
understand  that  it  will  be  because  she  does  not  dare 
to  show  how  glad  she  is  over  her  own  doings."  On 
another  birthday,  the  same  correspondent  says: 
"I  find  that  you  are  so  inwoven  with  the  spring 
time  that  I  shall  never  again  be  able  to  resolve 
the  season  into  its  elements.  But  I  am  the  richer 
for  it.  I  feel  a  sort  of  compassion  for  one  who  has 
never  seen  the  spring  through  your  eyes." 

Mr.  Burroughs  puts  his  reader  into  close  and 
sympathetic  communion  with  the  open-air  world 
as  no  other  literary  naturalist  has  done.  Gilbert 
White  reported  with  painstaking  fidelity  the  natu 
ral  history  of  Selborne;  Thoreau  gave  Thoreau 
with  glimpses  of  nature  thrown  in;  Richard 
Jefferies,  in  dreamy,  introspective  descriptions  of 
rare  beauty  and  delicacy,  portrayed  his  own  mys 
tical  impressions  of  nature;  but  Mr.  Burroughs 
takes  us  with  him  to  the  homes  and  haunts  of  the 
wild  creatures,  sets  us  down  in  their  midst,  and 
lets  us  see  and  hear  and  feel  just  what  is  going  on. 
We  read  his  books  and  echo  Whitman's  verdict  on 
them:  "They  take  me  outdoors!  God  bless  out 
doors!"  And  since  God  has  blessed  outdoors,  we 
say,  "  God  bless  John  Burroughs  for  taking  us  out 
of  doors  with  him!" 

Our  writer  never  prates  about  nature,  telling  us 
257 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

to  look  and  admire.  He  loves  the  common,  every 
day  life  about  him,  sees  it  more  intimately  than  you 
or  I  see  it,  and  tells  about  it  so  simply  and  clearly 
that  he  begets  a  like  feeling  in  his  reader.  It  was 
enjoined  of  the  early  Puritans  "  to  walke  honestlie 
in  the  sweete  fields  and  woodes."  How  well  our 
friend  has  obeyed  this  injunction! 

And  what  an  unobtrusive  lover  he  is !  Although 
it  is  through  him  that  his  mistress  stands  revealed, 
it  is  not  until  we  look  closely  that  we  spy  her  adorer 
in  the  background,  intent  only  on  unveiling  her 
charms.  How  does  he  do  this?  First  by  succumb 
ing  himself  —  Nature's  graces,  her  inconsistencies, 
even  her  objectionable  traits  appeal  to  him.  Like 
the  true  lover,  he  is  captivated  by  each  of  her 
phases,  and  surrenders  himself  without  reserve. 
Such  homage  makes  him  the  recipient  of  her 
choicest  treasures,  her  most  adorable  revela 
tions. 

I  have  mentioned  Gilbert  White's  contributions 
to  the  literature  about  nature:  one  must  admire 
the  man's  untiring  enthusiasm,  but  his  book  is 
mainly  a  storehouse  of  facts;  how  rarely  does  he 
invest  the  facts  with  charm!  To  pry  into  nature's 
secrets  and  conscientiously  report  them  seems  to 
be  the  aim  of  the  English  parson;  but  we  get  so 
little  of  the  parson  himself.  What  were  his  feel 
ings  about  all  these  things  he  has  been  at  such  pains 

258 


AN  APPRECIATION 

to  record?  The  things  themselves  are  not  enough. 
It  is  not  alluring  to  be  told  soberly :  — 

Hedge-hogs  abound  in  my  garden  and  fields.  The 
manner  in  which  they  eat  the  roots  of  the  plaintain  in 
the  grass  walk  is  very  curious;  with  their  upper  mandi 
ble,  which  is  much  larger  than  the  lower,  they  bore 
under  the  plant,  and  so  eat  the  root  off  upward,  leaving 
the  tuft  of  leaves  untouched. 

And  so  on.  By  way  of  contrast,  see  how  Mr. 
Burroughs  treats  a  similar  subject.  After  describ 
ing  the  porcupine,  mingling  description  and 
human  encounter,  thereby  enlisting  the  reader's 
interest,  he  says :  — 

In  what  a  peevish,  injured  tone  the  creature  did  com 
plain  of  our  unfair  tactics !  He  protested  and  protested, 
and  whimpered  and  scolded  like  some  infirm  old  man 
tormented  by  boys.  His  game  after  we  led  him  forth 
was  to  keep  himself  as  much  as  possible  in  the  shape  of 
a  ball,  but  with  two  sticks  and  the  cord  we  finally  threw 
him  over  on  his  back  and  exposed  his  quill-less  and 
vulnerable  under  side,  when  he  fairly  surrendered  and 
seemed  to  say,  "  Now  you  may  do  with  me  as  you  like." 

Here  one  gets  the  porcupine  and  Mr.  Burroughs  too. 
Thoreau  keeps  his  reader  at  arm's  length,  invites 
and  repels  at  the  same  time,  piques  one  by  his 
spiciness,  and  exasperates  by  his  opinionatedness. 
You  want  to  see  his  bean-field,  but  know  you 
would  be  an  intruder.  He  might  even  tell  you  to 

259 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

your  face  that  he  was  happiest  the  mornings  when 
nobody  called.  He  likes  to  advise  and  berate,  but 
at  long  range.  Speaking  of  these  two  writers, 
Whitman  once  said,  "  Outdoors  taught  Burroughs 
gentle  things  about  men  —  it  had  no  such  effect 
upon  Thoreau." 

Richard  Jefferies  appeals  to  lovers  of  nature  and 
lovers  of  literature  as  well.  He  has  the  poet's  eye 
and  is  a  sympathetic  spectator,  but  seldom  gives 
one  much  to  carry  away.  His  descriptions,  musical 
as  they  are,  barely  escape  being  wearisome  at 
times.  In  his  "Pageant  of  Summer"  he  babbles 
prettily  of  green  fields,  but  it  is  a  long,  long  sum 
mer  and  one  is  hardly  sorry  to  see  its  close.  In 
some  of  his  writings  he  affects  one  unpleasantly, 
gives  an  uncanny  feeling;  one  divines  the  invalid 
as  well  as  the  mystic  back  of  them;  there  is  a 
hectic  flush,  perhaps  a  neurotic  taint.  Beautiful, 
yes,  but  not  the  beauty  of  health  and  sanity.  It 
is  the  same  indescribable  feeling  I  get  in  read 
ing  that  pathetically  beautiful  book,  "The  Road- 
Mender,"  by  "Michael  Fairless"  —  the  gleam  of 
the  White  Gate  is  seen  all  along  the  Road,  though 
the  writer  strives  so  bravely  to  keep  it  hidden  till 
it  must  open  to  let  him  pass.  One  of  the  purest 
gems  of  Jefferies  —  "Hours  of  Spring"  —  has  8 
pathos  and  haunting  melody  of  compelling  poign 
ancy.  It  is  like  a  white  violet  or  a  hepatica. 

260 


AN  APPRECIATION 

But  with  Mr.  Burroughs  we  feel  how  preemi 
nently  sane  and  healthy  he  is.  His  essays  have  the 
perennial  charm  of  the  mountain  brooks  that  flow 
down  the  hills  and  through  the  fertile  valleys  of 
his  Catskill  home.  They  are  redolent  of  the  soil, 
of  leaf  mould,  of  the  good  brown  earth.  His  art 
pierces  through  our  habitual  indifference  to  Na 
ture  and  kindles  our  interest  in,  not  her  beauty 
alone,  but  in  her  rugged,  uncouth,  and  demo 
cratic  qualities. 

Like  the  true  walker  that  he  describes,  he  him 
self  "is  not  merely  a  spectator  of  the  panorama  of 
nature,  but  is  a  participator  in  it.  He  experiences 
the  country  he  passes  through,  —  tastes  it,  feels 
it,  absorbs  it."  Let  us  try  this  writer  by  his  own 
test.  He  says:  "When  one  tries  to  report  nature 
he  has  to  remember  that  every  object  has  a  his 
tory  which  involves  its  surroundings,  and  that  the 
depth  of  the  interest  which  it  awakens  in  us  is  in 
the  proportion  that  its  integrity  in  this  respect  is 
preserved."  He  must,  as  we  know  Mr.  Burroughs 
does,  bring  home  the  river  and  the  sky  when  he 
brings  home  the  sparrow  that  he  finds  singing  at 
dawn  on  the  alder  bough;  must  make  us  see  and 
hear  the  bird  on  the  bough,  and  this  is  worth  a  whole 
museum  of  stuffed  and  labeled  specimens.  To  do 
this  requires  a  peculiar  gift,  one  which  our  essay 
ist  has  to  an  unusual  degree  —  an  imagination 

261 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

that  goes  straight  to  the  heart  of  whatever  he 
writes  about,  combined  with  a  verbal  magic  that 
re-creates  what  he  has  seen.  Things  are  felici 
tously  seen  by  Mr.  Burroughs,  and  then  felici 
tously  said.  A  dainty  bit  in  Sidney's  "  Apologie  for 
Poetrie"  seems  to  me  aptly  to  characterize  our 
author's  prose:  "The  uttering  sweetly  and  prop 
erly  the  conceits  of  the  minde,  which  is  the  end  of 
speech." 

One  can  pick  out  at  random  from  his  books 
innumerable  poetic  conceits:  the  closed  gentian  is 
the  "nun  among  flowers";  a  patch  of  fringed 
polygalas  resembles  a  "flock  of  rose-purple  butter 
flies"  alighted  on  the  ground;  the  male  and  female 
flowers  of  the  early  everlasting  are  "found  sepa 
rated  from  each  other  in  well-defined  groups,  like 
men  and  women  in  an  old-fashioned  country 
church";  "the  note  of  the  pewee  is  a  human  sigh"; 
the  bloodroot  —  "a  full-blown  flower  with  a 
young  one  folded  in  a  leaf  beneath  it,  only  the  bud 
emerging,  like  the  head  of  a  papoose  protruding 
from  its  mother's  blanket."  Speaking  of  the  wild 
orchids  known  as  "lady's-slippers,"  see  the  inimit 
able  way  in  which  he  puts  you  on  the  spot  where 
they  grow:  "Most  of  the  floral  ladies  leave  their 
slippers  in  swampy  places  in  the  woods,  only  the 
stemless  one  (Cypripedium  acaule)  leaves  hers  on 
dry  ground  before  she  reaches  the  swamp,  com- 


AN  APPRECIATION 

monly  under  evergreen  trees  where  the  carpet  of 
pine  needles  will  not  hurt  her  feet."  Almost 
always  he  invests  his  descriptions  with  some 
human  touch  that  gives  them  rare  charm  —  nature 
and  human  nature  blended  —  if  it  is  merely  the 
coming  upon  a  red  clover  in  England  — 

"The  first  red  clover  head  just  bloomed  .  .  . 
but  like  the  people  I  meet,  it  has  a  ruddier  cheek 
than  those  at  home." 

When  we  ask  ourselves  what  it  is  that  makes  his 
essays  so  engaging,  we  conclude  it  is  largely  due  to 
their  lucidity,  spontaneity,  and  large  simplicity  — 
qualities  which  make  up  a  style  original,  fresh, 
convincing.  His  writing,  whether  about  nature, 
literature,  science,  or  philosophy,  is  always  sug 
gestive,  potent,  pithy;  his  humor  is  delicious;  he 
says  things  in  a  crisp,  often  racy,  way.  Yet  what 
a  sense  of  leisureliness  one  has  in  reading  him,  as 
well  as  a  sense  of  companionability ! 

What  distinguishes  him  most,  perhaps,  is  his 
vivid  and  poetic  apprehension  of  the  mere  fact. 
He  never  flings  dry  facts  at  us,  but  facts  are  always 
his  inspiration.  He  never  seeks  to  go  behind  them, 
and  seldom  to  use  them  as  symbols,  as  does 
Thoreau.  Thoreau  preaches  and  teaches  always; 
Mr.  Burroughs,  never.  The  facts  themselves  fill 
him  with  wonder  and  delight  —  a  wonder  and 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

delight  his  reader  shares.  The  seasons,  the  life  of 
the  birds  and  the  animals,  the  face  of  nature,  the 
ever  new,  the  ever  common  day  —  all  kindle  his 
enthusiasm  and  refresh  his  soul.  The  witchery  of 
the  ideal  is  upon  his  page  without  doubt,  but  he 
will  not  pervert  natural  history  one  jot  or  tittle  for 
the  sake  of  making  a  pretty  story.  His  whole  aim 
is  to  invest  the  fact  with  living  interest  without 
in  the  least  lessening  its  value  as  a  fact.  He  does 
not  deceive  himself  by  what  he  wants  to  be  true; 
the  scientist  in  him  is  always  holding  the  poet  in 
check.  Of  all  contemporary  writers  in  this  field, 
he  is  the  one  upon  whom  we  can  always  depend 
to  be  intellectually  honest.  He  has  an  abiding 
hankering  after  the  true,  the  genuine,  the  real;  can 
not  stand,  and  never  could  stand,  any  tampering 
with  the  truth.  Had  he  been  Cromwell's  portrait 
painter,  he  would  have  delighted  in  his  subject's 
injunction:  "Paint  me  as  I  am,  mole  and  all."  And 
he  would  have  made  the  mole  interesting;  he  has 
done  so,  but  that  is  a  mole  of  another  color. 

This  instinct  for  the  truth  being  so  strong  in 
him,  he  knows  it  when  he  sees  it  in  others;  he 
detects  its  absence,  too;  and  has  no  patience  and 
scant  mercy  for  those  past-masters  in  the  art  of 
blinking  facts,  —  those  natural-history  romancers 
who,  realizing  that  "the  crowd  must  have  em 
phatic  warrant,"  are  not  content  with  the  infinite 

264 


AN  APPRECIATION 

variety  of  nature,  but  must  needs  spend  their  art 
in  the  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess  of  painting 
the  lily,  perfuming  the  violet,  and  giving  to  the 
rainbow  an  added  hue.  Accordingly,  when  one 
warps  the  truth  to  suit  his  purpose,  especially  in 
the  realm  of  nature,  he  must  expect  this  hater  of 
shams  to  raise  a  warning  voice  —  "Beware  the 
wolf  in  sheep's  clothing!"  But  he  never  cries 
"Wolf!"  when  there  is  no  wolf,  and  he  gives  warm 
and  generous  praise  to  deserving  ones. 

It  has  surprised  some  of  his  readers,  who  know 
how  kindly  he  is  by  nature,  and  how  he  shrinks 
from  witnessing  pain,  in  beast  or  man,  much  less 
inflicting  it,  to  see  his  severity  when  nature  is 
traduced  —  for  he  shows  all  the  fight  and  fury  and 
all  the  defense  of  the  mother  bird  when  her  young 
are  attacked.  He  won't  suffer  even  a  porcupine 
to  be  misrepresented  without  bristling  up  in  its 
defense. 

I  have  said  that  he  never  preaches,  never  seeks 
to  give  a  moral  twist  to  his  observations  of  nature, 
but  I  recall  a  few  instances  where  he  does  do  a  bit 
of  moralizing;  for  example,  when  he  speaks  of  the 
calmness  and  dignity  of  the  hawk  when  attacked 
by  crows  or  kingbirds:  "He  seldom  deigns  to  notice 
his  noisy  and  furious  antagonist,  but  deliberately 
wheels  about  in  that  aerial  spiral,  and  mounts  and 

265 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

mounts  till  his  pursuers  grow  dizzy  and  return  to 
earth  again.  It  is  quite  original,  this  mode  of 
getting  rid  of  an  unworthy  opponent  —  rising  to 
heights  where  the  braggart  is  dazed  and  bewildered 
and  loses  his  reckoning!  I'm  not  sure  but  it  is 
worthy  of  imitation."  Or,  in  writing  of  work  on 
the  farm,  especially  stone-fence  making,  he  speaks 
of  clearing  the  fields  of  the  stones  that  are  built 
into  boundaries:  "If  there  are  ever  sermons  in 
stones,  it  is  when  they  are  built  into  a  stone  wall  — 
turning  your  hindrances  into  helps,  shielding  your 
crops  behind  the  obstacles  to  your  husbandry, 
making  the  enemies  of  the  plough  stand  guard  over 
its  products."  But  do  we  find  such  sermonizing 
irksome? 

Just  as  "all  architecture  is  what  you  do  to  it 
when  you  look  upon  it,"  so  is  all  nature.  Lovers  of 
Nature  muse  and  dream  and  invite  their  own  souls. 
They  interpret  themselves,  not  Nature.  She  re 
flects  their  thoughts  and  minds,  gives  them,  after 
all,  only  what  they  bring  to  her.  And  the  writer 
who  brings  much  —  much  of  insight,  of  devotion, 
of  sympathy  —  is  sure  to  bring  much  away  for 
his  reader's  delectation.  Does  not  this  account  for 
the  sense  of  intimacy  which  his  reader  has  with  the 
man,  even  before  meeting  him?  —  the  feeling  that 
if  he  ever  does  meet  him,  it  will  be  as  a  friend,  not 
as  a  stranger?  And  when  one  does  meet  him, 

806 


AN  APPRECIATION 

and  hears  him  speak,  one  almost  invariably 
thinks:  "He  talks  just  as  he  writes."  To  read 
him  after  that  is  to  hear  the  very  tones  of  his 
voice. 

We  sometimes  hear  the  expression,  "English  in 
shirt-sleeves,"  applied  to  objectionable  English; 
but  the  phrase  might  be  applied  in  a  commenda 
tory  way  to  good  English,  —  to  the  English  of  such 
a  writer  as  Mr.  Burroughs,  —  simple,  forceful  lan 
guage,  with  homely,  everyday  expressions;  Eng 
lish  that  shows  the  man  to  have  been  country-bred, 
albeit  he  has  wandered  from  the  home  pastures  to 
distant  woods  and  pastures  new,  browsing  in  the 
fields  of  literature  and  philosophy,  or  wherever  he 
has  found  pasturage  to  his  taste.  Or,  to  use  a 
figure  perhaps  more  in  keeping  with  his  main  pur 
suits,  he  is  one  who  has  flocked  with  birds  not  of 
a  like  feather  with  those  that  shared  with  him 
the  parent  nest.  Although  his  kin  knew  and  cared 
little  for  the  world's  great  books,  he  early  learned 
to  love  them  when  he  was  roaming  his  native  fields 
and  absorbing  unconsciously  that  from  which  he 
later  reaped  his  harvest.  It  is  to  writers  of  this  kind 
of  "English  in  shirt-sleeves"  that  we  return  again 
and  again.  In  them  we  see  shirt-sleeves  opposed 
to  evening  dress;  naturalness,  sturdiness,  sun-tan, 
and  open  sky,  opposed  to  the  artificial,  to  tame- 

267 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

ness,  constriction,  and  characterless  conformity  to 
prescribed  customs. 

Do  we  not  turn  to  writers  of  the  first  class  with 
eagerness,  slaking  our  thirst,  refreshing  our  minds 
at  perennial  springs?  How  are  we  glad  that  they 
lead  us  into  green  pastures  and  beside  still  waters, 
away  from  the  crowded  haunts  of  the  conventional, 
and  the  respectably  commonplace  society  garb  of 
speech!  What  matter  if  occasionally  one  even 
gives  a  wholesome  shock  by  daring  to  come  into 
the  drawing-room  of  our  minds  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
his  hands  showing  the  grime  of  the  soil,  and  his 
frame  the  strength  that  comes  from  battling  with 
wind  and  weather?  It  is  the  same  craving  which 
makes  us  say  with  Richard  Hovey:  — 

"I  am  sick  of  four  walls  and  a  ceiling; 
I  have  need  of  the  sky, 
I  have  business  with  the  grass." 

But  it  will  not  do  to  carry  this  analogy  too  far  in 
writing  of  Mr.  Burroughs  lest  it  be  inferred  that  I 
regard  the  author's  work  as  having  in  it  something 
of  the  uncouth,  or  the  ill-timed,  or  the  uncultured. 
His  writing  is  of  the  earth,  but  not  of  the  earth 
earthy.  He  sees  divine  things  underfoot  as  well 
as  overhead.  His  page  has  the  fertility  of  a  well- 
cultivated  pastoral  region,  the  limpidness  of  a 
mountain  brook,  the  music  of  our  unstudied  song 
sters,  the  elusive  charm  of  the  blue  beyond  the 

268 


AN  APPRECIATION 

summer  clouds;  it  has,  at  times,  the  ruggedness  of 
a  shelving  rock,  combined  with  the  grace  of  its 
nodding  columbines. 

Mr.  Burroughs  has  told  us,  in  that  June  idyl  of 
his,  "Strawberries,"  that  he  was  a  famous  berry- 
picker  when  a  boy.  It  was  with  a  peculiar  pleasure 
that  I  wandered  with  him  one  midsummer  day 
over  the  same  meadows  where  he  used  to  gather 
strawberries.  My  first  introduction  to  him  as  a 
writer,  many  years  before,  had  been  in  hearing 
this  essay  read.  And  since  then  never  a  year 
passes  that  I  do  not  read  it  at  least  three  times  — 
once  in  winter  just  to  bring  June  and  summer  near; 
once  in  spring  when  all  outdoors  gives  promise  of 
the  fullness  yet  to  be;  and  once  in  the  radiant  sum 
mer  weather  when  daisies  and  clover  and  bobo 
links  and  strawberries  riot  in  one's  blood,  making 
one  fairly  mad  to  bury  one's  self  in  the  June  mead 
ows  and  breathe  the  clover-scented  air.  And  it 
always  stands  the  test  —  the  test  of  being  read 
out  in  the  daisy-flecked  meadows  with  rollicking 
bobolinks  overhead. 

What  quality  is  it,  though,  that  so  moves  and 
stirs  us  when  Mr.  Burroughs  recounts  some  of  the 
simple  happenings  of  his  youth?  What  is  it  in  his 
recitals  that  quickens  our  senses  and  perceptions 
and  makes  our  own  youth  alive  and  real?  It  is 

269 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

paradise   regained  —  the   paradise   of   one's   lost 
youth.   Let  this  author  describe  his  boyhood  pas 
tures,  going  'cross  lots  to  school,  or  to  his  favorite 
spring,  whatsoever  it  is  —  is  it  the  path  that  he 
took  to  the  little  red  schoolhouse  in  the  Catskills? 
Is  it  the  spring  near  his  father's  sugar  bush  that 
we  see?  No.  One  is  a  child  again,  and  in  a  differ 
ent  part  of  the  State,  with  tamer  scenery,  but 
scenery    endeared    by    early    associations.     The 
meadow  you  see  is  the  one  that  lies  before  the 
house  where  you  were  born.    I  read  of  the  boy 
John  Burroughs  jumping  trout  streams  on  his 
way   to   school,   but   see  myself  and   my   play 
mates  scrambling  up  a  canal  bank,  running  along 
the  towpath,  careful  to  keep  on  the  land  side  of 
the  towline  that  stretches  from  mules  to  boat, 
lest  we  be  swept  into  the  green,  uninviting  waters 
of  the  Erie.   On  we  run  with  slate  and  books;  we 
smell  the  fresh  wood  as  we  go  through  the  lumber 
yard.   Or  I  read  another  of  his  boyish  excursions, 
and  find  myself  on  that  first  spring  outing  to 
a  distant,   low-lying  meadow  after   "cowslips"; 
another,  and  I  am  trudging  along  with  my  brother 
after   the   cows,    stopping   to   nibble   spearmint, 
or  pick  buttercups  by  the  way.    Prosaic  recol 
lections,    compared   to   spring   paths   and   trout 
brooks  in  the  Catskill  valleys,  yet  this  is  what  our 
author's  writings  do  —  re-create  for  each  of  us  our 

270 


AN  APPRECIATION 

own  youth,  with  our  own  childhood  scenes  and 
experiences,  invested  with  a  glamour  for  us,  how 
ever  prosy  they  seem  to  others;  and  why?  Be 
cause,  though  nature's  aspects  vary,  the  human 
heart  is  much  the  same  the  world  over,  and 
the  writer  who  faithfully  adds  to  his  descrip 
tions  of  nature  his  own  emotional  experiences 
arouses  answering  responses  in  the  soul  of  his 
reader. 

Perhaps  the  poet  in  Mr.  Burroughs  is  nowhere 
more  plainly  seen  than  in  his  descriptions  of  bird 
life,  yet  how  accurately  he  gives  their  salient 
points;  he  represents  the  bird  as  an  object  in  nat 
ural  history,  but  ah!  how  much  more  he  gives! 
Imagine  our  bird-lover  describing  a  bird  as  Ellery 
Channing  described  one,  as  something  with  "a 
few  feathers,  a  hole  at  one  end  and  a  point  at  the 
other,  and  a  pair  of  wings"!  We  see  the  bird  Mr. 
Burroughs  sees;  we  hear  the  one  he  hears.  Long 
before  I  had  the  memorable  experience  of  standing 
with  him  on  the  banks  of  the  Willowemoc  and 
listening  at  twilight  to  the  slow,  divine  chant  of 
the  hermit  thrush,  I  had  heard  it  in  my  dreams, 
because  of  that  inimitable  description  of  its  song 
in  "Wake-Robin."  It  does,  indeed,  seem  to  be 
"the  voice  of  that  calm,  sweet  solemnity  one 
attains  to  in  his  best  moments."  As  one  listens  to 

271 


OUR  FRIEND  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

its  strain  in  the  hush  of  twilight,  the  pomp  of 
cities  and  the  pride  of  civilization  of  a  truth  seem 
trivial  and  cheap. 

What  a  near,  human  interest  our  author  makes 
us  feel  in  the  birds,  how  we  watch  their  courtships, 
how  we  peer  into  their  nests,  and  how  lively  is  our 
solicitude  for  their  helpless  young  swung  in  their 
"procreant  cradles,"  beset  on  all  sides  by  foes  that 
fly  and  creep  and  glide !  And  not  only  does  he  make 
the  bird  a  visible  living  creature;  he  makes  it  sing 
joyously  to  the  ear,  while  all  nature  sings  blithely 
to  the  eye.  We  see  the  bird,  not  as  a  mass  of 
feathers  with  "upper  parts  bright  blue,  belly 
white,  breast  ruddy  brown,  mandibles  and  legs 
black,"  as  the  textbooks  have  it,  but  as  a  thing 
of  life  and  beauty:  "Yonder  bluebird  with  the 
earth  tinge  on  his  breast  and  the  sky  tinge  on  his 
back,  —  did  he  come  down  out  of  heaven  on  that 
bright  March  morning  when  he  told  us  so  softly 
and  plaintively  that,  if  we  pleased,  spring  had 
come?"  Who  is  there  in  reading  this  matchless 
description  of  the  bluebird  that  does  not  feel  the 
retreat  of  winter,  that  does  not  feel  his  pulse 
quicken  with  the  promise  of  approaching  spring, 
that  does  not  feel  that  the  bird  did,  indeed,  come 
down  out  of  heaven,  the  heaven  of  hope  and  pro 
mise,  even  though  the  skies  are  still  bleak,  and 
the  winds  still  cold?  Who,  indeed,  except  those 

272 


AN  APPRECIATION 

prosaic  beings  who  are  blind  and  deaf  to  the  most 
precious  things  in  life? 

"I  heard  a  bluebird  this  morning!"  one  ex 
claimed  exultantly,  so  stirred  as  to  forget  mo 
mentarily  her  hearer's  incapacity  for  enthusiasm. 
"Well,  and  did  it  sound  any  different  from  what 
it  did  last  year,  and  the  year  before,  and  the  year 
before  that?"  inquired  in  measured,  world- wearied 
tones  the  dampener  of  ardors.  No,  my  poor  friend, 
it  did  not.  And  just  because  it  sounded  the  same  as 
it  has  in  all  the  succeeding  springs  since  life  was 
young,  it  touched  a  chord  in  one's  heart  that  must 
be  long  since  mute  in  your  own,  making  you  poor, 
indeed,  if  this  dear  familiar  bird  voice  cannot  set 
it  vibrating  once  more. 


THE   END 


INDEX 


(The  abbreviation  "  B."  as  used  in  this  index  refers  to  the  subject  of  this  book.) 


ADAMANA.    See  Arizona. 

Addison,  J.,  149. 

Adirondack^,  B.'s  first  trip  to, 
108. 

Akers,  Elizabeth,  "Florence 
Percy,"  174. 

Alaska,  B.  in,  230;  Muir  glacier, 
245;  "Green  Alaska,"  238; 
Alaskan  expedition,  referred  to, 
230;  alluded  to,  22,  229;  B.'s 
comments  on  his  narrative  of 
the  trip,  143;  the  men  he  affili 
ated  with,  139. 

Algebra,  how  B.  earned  his  first, 
58. 

Allen,  E.  M.,  verses  to  by  B.,  174- 
75. 

'*  All  Souls,"  early  nom  de  plume  of 
B.'s,  151;  quoted,  151-56. 

"All's  Well  with  the  World,"  B.'s 
optimism,  8-9. 

Amiel,  41. 

"Analogy,"  early  essay  of  B.'s, 
164;  commented  on  by  Wasson, 
168-71. 

Anti-rent  war,  anecdote  concern 
ing  B.'s  father,  57;  concerning 
neighbor,  94. 

"Apologie  forPoetrie."  See  Sid 
ney. 

Apple,  B.'s  comments  on  essay 
about,  15. 

"Appreciation,  An,"  by  author, 
255-73;  "obituary  method  of," 
1. 

April,  B.  quoted,  256. 

"Arctic  Explorations."  See  Kane. 

Arizona,  229,  230, 244;  desert,  231, 
232. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  14,  146,  187. 


Ashland.  See  Hedding  Literary 
Institute. 

"Atlantic  Monthly,"  B.'s  first  ap 
pearance  in,  2,  101,  128,  130, 
162;  B.'s  fiftieth  anniversary  as 
contributor,  2;  its  early  influ 
ence  on  B.,  81, 128, 177;  its  re 
fusal  of  early  essay  on  "Anal 
ogy,"  later  acceptance,  164; 
Wasson's  opinion  of  it,  165;  B.'s 
first  bird  article,  108,  173. 

Audubon,  stimulated  B.  to  study 
birds,  81,  107-08,  109. 

Aunts  and  uncles  of  B.,  paternal, 
48;  maternal,  50,  53-54,  65. 

Author's  association  with  B.,  4, 10, 
29,  202;  first  meeting,  29-44; 
first  introduction  to  his  writings, 
269;  aiding  him  in  typing  and 
proof-reading,  221-22;  travels 
with  B.,  227  et  seq.\  see  also 
"Back  toPepacton." 

Autobiographical  matter  by  B., 
shown  in  letters,  15,  16-18;  ac 
count  of  ancestry,  family  life, 
and  development,  46-147;  con 
cerning  early  writings,  148-49, 
163,  177-78. 

Autobiography,  Aldrich's  com 
ments  on,  45. 

A  very,  Chauncey,  uncle  of  B.,  49. 

A  very,  Rachael,  paternal  grand 
mother  of  B.,  47-19. 

"A  Year  in  the  Fields,"  anecdote 
concerning,  71. 

"Backward,  turn  backward,  O 
Time,  in  your  flight,"  men 
tioned,  174. 

Bacon,  14,  127,  152,  166. 


275 


INDEX 


Barrow,  Dr.  Isaac,  mentioned, 
166. 

Batavia  Kill,  203. 

Beaverkill,  22. 

Bee-culture,  B.'s  love  for,  112; 
brother's  bees,  112;  bumble 
bees,  80,  119,  120. 

Bee-hunting,  B.  quoted,  30,  31. 

Benton,  Joel,  quoted  concerning 
"Waiting,"  181-82;  his  Con 
cordance  of  Emerson,  190. 

Bergson,  Henri,  ideas  allied  to  in 
B.'s  early  essays,  163,  164; 
"Creative  Evolution,"  187, 189, 
220. 

Berry-picking,  15,  115,  116,  269; 
mother's  love  of  berry-picking, 
65,  115,  116,  223. 

Biology,  B.'s  comments  on  study 
of,  81,  82. 

"  Birch  Browsings,"  155. 

"Bird  and  Bough,"  261. 

Birds,  B.'s  early  interest  in,  vivid 
recollections,  118-19;  country 
experiences,  107,  108;  stimula 
tion  by  Audubon,  81,  107-08; 
began  writing  about  them,  108, 
173. 

"Birds  and  Poets,"  255. 

Birthplace  of  B.  See  Roxbury, 
and  Old  Home. 

Bjornson,  quoted,  8. 

Black  Pond,  25. 

Bloodroot,  B.  quoted,  262. 

"Bloomfield  Mirror,"  B.'s  first 
appearance  in  print,  149-50; 
quotation,  150. 

Bluebirds,  early  essay  of  B.'s 
quoted,  157-58;  later  descrip 
tions  referred  to,  159;  quoted, 
272. 

Blue  grass  region,  22. 

"Boarding  round,"  95. 

Boswell's  Johnson.     See  Johnson. 

Brahms's  Cradle  Song,  a  favorite 
of  B.'s,  201. 

Broomstick,  Stevenson  quoted, 
141. 

Brothers  and  sisters  of  B.,  data 


concerning,  67-73;  B.  an  "odd 
one"  among  them,  59, 69, 71-73, 
80,  88,  109-13,  120-21,  210; 
their  indifference  to  his  writ 
ings,  50,  51,  59,  64,  68,  69,  70, 
71,  110;  family  weaknesses  and 
ineffectiveness,  66,  110;  death 
of  favorite  sister,  Abigail,  50- 
51;  the  one  who  best  under 
stood  him,  51,  69-70;  Brother 
Wilson,  215;  also  see  Hiram  and 
Eden  Burroughs. 

Brown,  Brownlee,  162,  163. 

Browne,  Francis  Fisher,  editor  of 
"The  Dial,"  mentioned,  246; 
referred  to,  242;  alluded  to,  221, 
253. 

"Bunch  of  Herbs,"  155. 

Burroughs,  Amy  Kelly,  mother  of 
B.,  born,  54;  mentioned,  53,  56; 
courtship,  60,  203;  married,  54, 
60;  described  by  son,  63-65;  her 
arduous  life,  61-62,  76;  her  in 
tercessions  for  him,  58,  64; 
never  read  one  of  his  books,  64; 
her  berry -picking,  65,  115-16; 
son's  fondness  for  her,  15,  64, 
66,  67,  82;  her  death,  64,  116; 
the  debt  he  owes  her,  64,  65,  67, 
115,  120. 

Burroughs,  Chauncey,  father  of 
B.,  son's  description  of,  55-60; 
a  farmer,  46;  Celtic  traits,  48, 
66,  114,  115;  first  home  after 
marriage,  54;  easier  life  than 
mother,  61,  62;  unfriendliness 
to  B.'s  educational  aspirations, 
58,  59,  64;  never  alluded  to  his 
literary  work,  59,  60;  physical 
make-up,  48,  65-66;  indiffer 
ence  to  nature,  56,  115;  his  reli 
gion,  55-56,  59;  sympathy  with 
anti-renters,  57;  B.'s  filial  af 
fection  for,  59,  66,  67,  82,  115; 
inheritance  from  paternal  side, 
65,  66,  67,  114,  147;  death,  64, 
67. 

Burroughs,  Eden,  grandfather  of 
B.,  47;  pursuits,  characteristics, 


276 


INDEX 


and  death,  47-48,  114;  his  first 
house,  48,  54-55,  203. 

Burroughs,  Eden,  brother  of  B., 
69. 

Burroughs,  Ephraim,  great  grand 
father  of  B.,  47. 

Burroughs,  George,  the  Reverend, 
early  American  ancestor  of  B., 
46. 

Burroughs,  Hiram,  eldest  brother 
of  B.,  description  of  by  B.,  67, 
121;  his  pursuits,  70,  110-12; 
life  of  the  two  brothers  together 
at  Slabsides,  71-72;  death,  67, 
70;  anecdotes  about  him,  110- 
13.  See  also  Brothers  and  sis 
ters. 

Burroughs,  John,  early  ancestor 
of  B.,  47. 

Burroughs,  John,  ancestor  born 
in  1705,  47. 

Burroughs,  Rev.  John  C.,  46. 

BURROUGHS,  JOHN,  THE  MAN: 

Birth,  60,  69;  fifth  son  and 
seventh  child,  60;  B.'s  descrip 
tion  of  country  about  birth 
place,  87-88;  yeoman  ancestry, 
23,  24,  46,  51,  110,  145-46;  B.'s 
account  of  ancestry  and  family 
life,  46-71, 145-46;  B.'s  account 
of  childhood  and  youth,  73-109, 
114-15;  B.'s  self-analysis,  43- 
44,  45-46,  48,  50,  66,  80,  96-97, 
109-10,  112-47,  149. 

Boyhood,  B.'s  account  of,  73- 
87,  116-25;  early  recollections, 
205-06,  207,  212,  223;  first  day 
in  school,  204;  first  journey 
from  home,  204;  early  school 
days,  74,  120,  121,  204,  208, 
215;  West  Settlement  school, 
204,  213,  214,  215,  270;  love 
for  fancy  poultry,  112-13; 
love  of  bees,  112;  early  in 
terest  in  nature,  80,  117,  118; 
first  birds  noticed  and  remem 
bered,  118-19,  210;  spring  peep 
ers,  80,  119;  Bumble  bees,  119- 
20;  boyish  periods  of  exaltation, 

277 


121-22;  boyish  explanation  of 
origin  of  universe,  79-80;  early 
books  read,  102,  121;  early  oc 
cupations  and  pursuits,  211- 
12;  work  on  farm,  74,  75,  85-87, 
115,  116-17,  131;  sugar-mak 
ing,  58,  74,  85-87;  first  money 
earned,  58,  75,  112;  hunting, 
77-79;  fear  of  ghosts,  208- 
09;  youthful  Sundays,  124, 
125;  trout-fishing,  14,  76,  124, 
133,  215,  217-18;  phrenolo 
gist's  prediction,  123;  the  word 
"taste,"  207-08;  "antiquities," 
208;  roses  of  boyhood,  214. 

Youth,  B.'s  account,  88-109; 
early  interest  in  books  and  edu 
cation  (new  Academy),  212- 
13 ;  the  lure  of  Harpersfield  Semi- 
inary,  89-90,  213;  day  dreams, 
89-90, 123-24;  aspirations,  213; 
first  home-leaving,  90-94;  first 
engagement  at  school-teaching, 
92-95;  homesickness,  94,  96- 
97;  attends  Hedding  Literary 
Institute,  97-100,  222;  attends 
Cooperstown  Seminary,  104- 
05;  other  school- teaching,  103, 
at  Buffalo  Grove,  Illinois,  107, 
and  in  New  York  and  New  Jer 
sey  schools,  107,  173;  first  visit 
to  New  York  City,  100-02,  211; 
second-hand  books  purchased, 
100-01,  211;  recollections  of 
youth,  environment,  etc.,  82- 
84,  114,  117. 

Early  Manhood,  engagement 
and  marriage,  103-04;  early 
reading,  81,  105,  121,  126,  148, 
211;  philosophical  writing,  107, 
148;  begins  to  study  medicine* 
107,  171,  173,  177;  first  at- 
tempts  at  writing,  96,  106,  107, 
108, 117, 142,  148-64, 163, 172- 
73,  174-77;  first  interest  in  the 
birds,  118-19,  81,  107-09; 
dreams  of  wealth  through  pa 
tent  buckle,  107;  writes  "Wait 
ing"  (see  "Waiting");  first  es- 


INDEX 


say  in  "  Atlantic"  (see  "  Expres 
sion");  first  appearance  in 
print,  149-50,  quotation,  150; 
first  bird  essay,  108,  173;  first 
verses,  64, 174-76;  clerkship  and 
life  in  Washington,  173,  238; 
bank  examiner,  23;  first  book 
published,  "Walt  Whitman  as 
Poet  and  Person,"  173;  first  na 
ture  book,  "Wake  Robin,"  178; 
"Vine-Dresser  of  Esopus,"  al 
luded  to,  23-24,  193. 

Personal  appearance,  29-30, 
184.  ^ 

B's  review  of  his  life,  131- 
89;  a  shorter  survey,  17. 

Characteristics,  friendliness, 
1,  3,  6,  7,  8,  10,  266;  true  heart- 
edness,  3;  joy  in  life,  4, 131, 137, 
240,  251;  serenity,  4,  221;  see 
also  "W'aiting";  simplicity,  5, 
8,  27,  227,  263;  retiring  habits, 
5,  7,  26,  28,  139;  genuineness,  6, 
40;  optimism,  9,  182-83;  urban 
ity  and  tolerance,  5;  humor,  5, 
39,  40,  41,  202,  237;  approach- 
ableness,  1,  3,  5,  6,  9, 10,  11,  12, 
26,  28,  200;  extreme  sensitive 
ness,  7,  91,  114,  134,  208-09, 
212,  213;  likeness  to  FitzGer- 
ald,  5,  6,  7;  hermit  habits,  5,  26, 
139,  241;  tendency  to  sulk,  30, 
48;  "dreamy,  shirking  ways," 
52,  110,  114;  a  loiterer,  7,  132, 
250,  251;  "yearning,  brooding 
nature,"  115;  comradeship,  6, 8, 
10,  11,  29,  44,  263;  hospitality, 
5, 10,  44,  77;  Indian  name,  5;  in 
domestic  capacity,  38-41,  72, 
189,  191-93,  201-02,  222;  ideal 
ism  and  romantic  tendencies, 
65,  264;  inability  to  harbor  re 
sentment,  66;  lacking  in  deci 
sion,  66,  110,  128,  134,  228; 
lacks  heroic  fibre,  7,  133,  134, 
137-38;  a  lover  of  peace,  133, 
134,231;  shuns  argument,  231- 
82;  aversion  to  speech-making, 
240;  "Felix,"  the  fortunate,  18; 

278 


at  home  in  the  universe,  4-5, 
17,  159-60,  161,  253;  independ 
ent,  not  partisan,  134-35;  near 
ness  to  the  soil  and  to  common 
things,  7,  19,  23-24,  116,  261, 
264,  268;  associated  with  all  out 
of  doors,  1,  4,  21-22;  strong 
filial  and  fraternal  feelings,  15, 
50-51,  59,  64,  66,  67,  70,82, 115, 
133;  love  of  home,  22,  28,  51, 
55,  66-67,  70,  82,  114,  116,  124, 
156-57,  198,  203;  love  of  home 
scenes,  196,  230,  237-39;  home 
sickness  amid  strange  surround 
ings,  238-39;  loath  to  leave 
home,  228;  love  of  early  friends, 
239;  dominated  by  the  spell  of 
the  Past,  196-97,  224-26;  Cel 
tic  traits,  48,  66,  114,  115;  the 
"child  in  the  heart,"  8,  17,  198, 
219,  220,  239-40;  his  secret  of 
youth,  17;  holiday  spirit,  8, 133, 
137;  love  of  simple  life,  5, 17, 19, 
20,  27,  28,  33, 132,  135-36, 185- 
86,  200-01,  240;  a  hero-wor 
shiper,  35;  love  of  animals, 
132;  "Silly  Sally,"  the  cat,  34, 
41;  some  of  his  indoor  compan 
ions,  187;  honorary  degrees  de 
clined,  239. 

Religion,  reverence  for  the 
Cosmos,  4-5,  17,  42-43,  178; 
things  he  venerates,  moral 
standards,  67,  134,  137,  138, 
139;  his  "Outlook  upon  Life," 
186;  views  on  Immortality,  188- 
89;  occasionally  moralizes,  265- 
66. 

Journeyings,  21-22;  Euro 
pean  trips,  22,  202-03,  238; 
Adirondacks,  108;  Yellowstone, 
22,  143;  Alaska,  22,  139,  229, 
238;  Jamaica,  22,  238;  Grand 
Canon,  22,  227,  235-37,  244; 
Yosemite,  227,  247-49,  252, 
253-54;  Hawaii,  22,  227,  238, 
239,  240,  245;  keen  interest  in 
new  territory,  229. 

Burroughs  and  Muir  contrasted. 


INDEX 


231,    234.    235.    237-38,    241, 
250-51. 

Birthdays,  celebrated  by 
school-children,  16-17;  seventy- 
second  birthday,  245-46;  birth 
day  letters,  256,  257. 

Nicknames,  "John  of  Birds," 
253;  "John  of  Woods,"  219; 
"Vine-Dresser  of  Esopus,"  193; 
"Hermit  of  Slabsides,"  26; 
"Sage of  Slabsides,"  184;  "Oom 
John,"  3;  "St.  John,"  221; 
"Uncle  John,"  200;  "Man-not- 
afraid-of-corapany,"  5;  "Laird 
of  Woodchuck  Lodge,"  193; 
"Baba"  (to  his  grandchildren), 
194. 

THE  WRITER,  his  wide  ap 
peal,  1,  2-3,  7,  8,  9-10,  73,  210- 
11;  appreciated  while  living, 
1-2,  3  (see  also  "An  Apprecia 
tion,"  255-73);  contemporary 
opinions  —  a  critic  in  1876,  2; 
Brander  Matthews,  2;  Roose 
velt,  3;  Whitman,  3,  255,  257, 
260;  N.Y.  "Globe,"  3;  Western 
architect,  8-9;  Kansas  youth,  9; 
Minot  Savage,  255;  Wasson's 
opinion  of  his  unusual  intellec 
tual  gifts,  164-66,  168-71,  178- 
79;  personal  relation  craved  by 
readers,  1,  4,  5;  man  and  his 
books  closely  related,  6,  8,  9, 15, 
19,  115,  162,  266-67;  body  and 
mind  closely  related,  135-36; 
must  be  in  good  health,  135- 
36;  an  interpreter  of  nature,  2, 
45,  66,  72,  115, 116,  159-60, 161 
-62;  221,  257-59,  261-63,  266, 
269-71;  insistence  on  truth 
about  nature,  52,  134,  146,  150, 
263-64;  method  of  writing,  140^ 
47;  labors  to  overcome  crudi 
ties,  106,  145-46,  153;  must 
first  experience  things,  15,  142- 
43;  writes  because  he  loves  to, 
8,  140-42,  143,  250,  251;  once 
imitated  Johnson,  149;  involun 
tary  imitation  of  Emerson  (see 

279 


Emerson) ;  his  earliest  verses,64, 
174-76;  for  early  writings  (see 
also  Early  Manhood);  growth 
in  literary  taste,  105-06;  phi 
losophical  and  speculative  es 
says  referred  to,  238;  poet  and 
scientist  combined,  271-72; 
gospel  of  his  books,  "Stay  at 
home,"  228,  22-23;  his  writings 
a  foreign  thing  to  his  kin,  50,  51, 
59,  60,  64,  68,  69,  70, 71,  267;  his 
style,  2,  8,  19,  40,  149,  263,  267- 
69,  271;  goes  to  the  heart  of 
things,  40,  200-01;  B.  as  a 
critic,  12-13,  14-16,  49;  his 
comments  on  style  (see  Style). 

B.  and  the  children,  2;  let 
ters  to  Fulton  school-children, 
14-16;  to  N.Y.  school-children, 
16-17;  his  correspondents,  2-3, 
5-6,  10-13;  strange  requests 
from  them,  11,  12,  13. 

B.  compared  to  Gilbert 
White,  19-21,  27,  257,  258-59; 
to  Thoreau,  19-21,  26,  27,  28, 
257,  259-60,  263;  to  Richard 
Jefferies,  257,  260;  to  "Michael 
Fairless,"  260. 

B.  quoted,  the  mothering 
powers  of  the  universe,  4;  let 
ters  to  school-children,  14-16, 
16-17;  concerning  his  own  good 
fortune,  18 ;  on  the  naming 
of  Slabsides,  20 ;  observations 
about  familiar  places,  22-23;  on 
ploughing,  24;  on  living  near  a 
great  river,  24;  obey  the  call  of 
one's  own  nature,  27;  one's  en 
vironment,  28;  concerning  cor 
respondents,  29 ;  mushrooms, 
30;  on  his  tendency  to  sulk,  30, 
48;  bee-hunting,  30-31;  wild 
honey,  31;  the  building  of  Slab- 
sides,  33-34;  dislike  for  paint 
and  polish,  33;  life  at  Slabsides, 
33-34,  Silly  Sally,  34;  meeting 
with  Emerson,  35;  subsequent 
meetings,  35-36;  Holmes  and 
Whittier,  36;  Emerson  and 


INDEX 


Whitman,  36-37;  Whitman, 
37-38;  Maeterlinck,  39;  on  the 
heart  of  things,  40;  fireside 
talks,  34-43,  186-91;  "Wait 
ing"  (see  "Waiting");  autobio 
graphical  matter,  46-147;  early 
writings  quoted  (which  see) ;  the 
permanence  of  youthful  experi 
ences,  117,  224;  early  verses, 
174776;  ;*  Waiting,"  182-83; 
his  imitation  of  Emerson,  163; 
invitation  to  Slabsides,  184; 
partridge,  185;  region  about 
Slabsides,  185;  simple  life,  186; 
concerning  Emerson  on  immor 
tality,  187;  B.  on  immortality, 
188;  Whitman  on  same,  189; 
on  his  treacherous  memory,  189 
-90;  visiting  grave  of  grandpar 
ents,  191;  the  baking  of  an 
onion,  192;  the  spell  of  the  Past, 
196-97,  225;  "The  Return," 
197;  song  of  vesper  sparrow, 
201;  the  look  of  the  home  hills, 
203;  on  one's  identification  with 
his  own  landscape,  203;  grand 
parents  as  pioneers,  203;  learn 
ing  his  letters,  204;  his  first  ven 
ture  in  the  world,  204;  on  early 
recollections  (which  see);  soil  of 
native  hills,  206;  corn-shelling, 
206-07;  early  school  days,  207; 
first  heard  word  "taste,"  and 
"antiquities,"  207-08;  flying 
grasshoppers,  211;  autumn 
journeys  with  father  to  sell  but 
ter,  211-12;  Roxbury  Academy, 
212;  early  fear  of  God,  213-14; 
pen-picture  of  self  with  boyhood 
roses,  214;  on  his  inherited  love 
for  trout-fishing,  217;  last  fish 
ing  trip  with  grandfather,  218; 
coveting  a  schoolmate's  slate 
pencil,  223;  exasperation  at 
John  Muir,  224;  joy  in  living  at 
Woodchuck  Lodge,  225-26;  dis 
inclination  to  travel,  ?28;  Muir's 
loquacity  and  hectoring  traits, 
228-29,  237,  247;  monotony  of 


Kansas  landscape,  230;  prefer- 
ing  to  see  old  friends  to  taking 
honorary  degree,  239;  domestic 
matters,  244;  Muir's  glacial 
hobby,  248;  itch  for  geology, 
248;  Yosemite,  248,  254;  Muir's 
note-taking,  250;  April,  256; 
porcupine,  259;  on  the  walker, 
261;  reporting  nature,  261; 
closed  gentian,  262;  fringed  po- 
lygala,  262  ;  early  everlasting, 
262;  pewee,  262;  bloodroot,  262; 
pink  lady-slipper,  262-63;  red 
clover  in  England,  263;  hawk 
pursued  by  lesser  birds,  265- 
66;  stone  fence-making,  266; 
hermit  thrush,  271;  bluebird, 
272. 

Burroughs,  John,  the  younger, 
grandson  of  B.,  194,  202. 

Burroughs,  Julian,  son  of  B.,  a 
Harvard  graduate,  46;  follows 
father's  pursuits,  193;  his  fam 
ily,  193,  194. 

Burroughs,  Stephen,  ancestor  of 
B.,  47. 

Burroughs,  Stephen,  ancestor  of 
B.,  47. 

Burroughs,  Stephen,  ancestor  of 
B.,  65. 

Burroughs,  Ursula  North,  wife  of 
B.,  37,  103,  104,  107,  193 

Butter-making,  early  essay  of  B., 
quoted,  172,  173. 

California,  described  by  B.,  16- 
17;  mentioned,  142,  243;  desert, 
239;  southern  C.,  227. 

Camp  Ahwahnee.    See  Yosemite. 

Camp  Monax.  See  "Woodchuck 
Lodge." 

Carlyle,  127,  146,  187;  "In  the 
Carlyle  Country,"  22. 

Carman,  Bliss,  quoted,  256. 

Catskills,  6,  192,  224,  238,  261, 
270;  "Heart  of  Southern  Cat- 
skills,"  22;  Old  Home  in  Cat- 
skills  (see  Old  Home);  B.'s 
homesickness  for,  196;  return 


280 


INDEX 


to,  198;  peaks  seen  from  near 
Old  Home,  208. 

Channing,  Ellery,  quoted,  271. 

"Charlotte  Temple,"  102. 

Chaucer,  105. 

Civil  War,  84,  95,  177. 

Clapp,  Henry,  151. 

Cobb's  second  reader,  74;  spelling 
book,  74. 

Colorado  River,  237. 

"Complete  Letter  Writer,"  95, 
96. 

Cooperstown  Seminary,  attended 
by  B.,  104-05;  revisited  in 
1902,  106-07. 

Correspondence,  B.  with  school 
children,  14-17;  universality  of 
letters  to  B.,  10,  11;  strange  re 
quests  from  correspondents,  11, 
12,  13;  London  correspondent, 
10;  responses  from  readers,  2-3. 

"Cosmopolitan,   The,"    140. 

"Country  Calendar,  The,"  11. 

Country  life,  best  stimulates  na 
ture  study,  80,  82, 108, 116, 117, 
124. 

Cowley,  14. 

"Creative  Evolution."  See  Berg- 
son. 

Crimean  War,  subject  of  debate, 
99. 

Cromwell,  quoted,  264. 

"Culture,  A  Thought  on,"  154- 
55. 

Cypripedium  acaule,  B.  quoted, 
262. 

Dana,  Charles  A.,  37. 

Darwin,  187. 

Dayball's  arithmetic,  74,  121. 

Deacon  woods,  204,  210. 

Debates  in  school,  99. 

"Deep,"  early  essay  of  B.'s,  153, 
154. 

Delaware  County,  91,  198,  199, 
206,  216. 

Dellenbaugh,  Frederick,  139. 

Dick,  Thomas,  a  writer  who  stim 
ulated  B.  in  youth,  101,  105. 


"Divine    Abyss."      See    Grand 

Canon  of  Colorado. 
"Divine  Soil,  The,"  155. 

East  Branch  of  Delaware.  See 
Pepacton. 

"Egotistical  Chapter,"  men 
tioned,  107. 

El  Capitan.  See  Yosemite. 

"Eliot,  George,"  quoted,  70. 

El  Tovar.    See    Grand  Canon. 

Emerson,  Charles,  166. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  men 
tioned,  14,  146,  173,  187; 
quoted  concerning  Thoreau,  27 
-28;  B.'s  first  meeting  with  E., 
35;  his  description  of  E.'s  ap 
pearance,  35-36;  subsequent 
meetings,  35-36;  E.'s  early  in 
fluence  on  B.,  81,  105,  126-28, 
177;  "Emersonian  musk,"  129, 
130;  involuntary  imitation  of 
E.,  163-64;  "Expression"  first 
ascribed  to  E.,  129, 162;  Brown- 
lee  Brown  involuntary  imitator 
of  E.,  162-163;  E.  quoted  con 
cerning  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  37; 
quoted,  41;  E.  slow  in  publish 
ing  essays,  166;  Concordance  of 
Emerson,  190;  E.  on  immortal 
ity,  187;  "Worm  striving  to  be 
man,"  189-90;  quoted,  203. 

England,  "Mellow,"  22,  155,  238; 
England's  impression  on  B. 
quoted,  202-03. 

"Epicure,  Fragments  from  the 
Table  of  an  Intellectual,"  151- 
58. 

Erasmus,  158. 

Esopus  Creek,  49;  Esopus  Valley, 
248. 

Essays,  early  writings  of  B.  took 
that  form,  148;  early  reading 
of  essays,  105,  148-49;  Brander 
Matthews  on  B.  as  an  essayist, 
2;  essay-writing  demands  ma.- 
turity,  166;  other  requisites^ 
167,  171-72.  See  Wasson. 

Everlasting,  early,  262. 


281 


INDEX 


** Expression,"  B.'s  first  essay  in 
"Atlantic,"  2, 128, 165;  ascribed 
to  Emerson,  129,  162;  contains 
Bergsonian  ideas,  163-64. 

"Fairless,  Michael."  See  "Michael 
Fairless." 

Fiske,  John,  lecturing  at  Harvard 
on  immortality,  187-88. 

FitzGerald,  Edward,  described  by 
a  contemporary,  5;  likeness  to 
B.,  5,  6,  7;  quoted,  7. 

"Flight  of  the  Eagle,"  essay  on 
Whitman,  155. 

"  Fragments  from  the  Table  of  an 
Intellectual  Epicure,"  early  es 
say  of  B.'s,  151. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  69. 

Freeman,  quoted,  15-16. 

"From  the  Back  Country,"  gen 
eral  title  of  B.'s  early  nature  es 
says,  172. 

Gentian,  closed,  262. 
Gilchrist,  Anne,  41,  42. 
"Globe,"  N.Y.,  quoted,  3. 
Golden     Poems.      See     Browne, 

Francis  Fisher. 
"Gospel  of  Nature,"  221. 
Gould,  Jay,  playmate  of  B.,  60; 

anecdote  and  doggerel,  215, 216. 
Gould,  John,  60. 
Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado,  22, 

227,  244,  252;  with  Burroughs 

and  Muir  at  Canon,   235-37; 

first  sight  of  spectacle,  235,  236; 

descent  into  Canon,  236-37;  B. 

writing  on  the  Grand  Canon, 

244;  "Divine  Abyss,"  244. 
Grape-culture,    an   avocation   of 

B.'s,  23. 
Gray's  "Elements  of  Geology," 

216. 
Greenleaf's  Grammar,  121. 

Haleakala,  11. 
Half-Dome.     See  Yosemite. 
"Harper's  Magazine,"  99. 
Harpersfield  Seminary,  89,  213. 


Harriman  Alaskan  Expedition. 
See  Alaska. 

Harvard  College,  46,  187. 

Hawaii,  referred  to,  22,  227,  238, 
240;  B.  in  Hawaii,  238,  239,  245. 

Hawk,  pursued  by  lesser  birds, 
265,  266. 

Hay-barn  study,  200. 

Hedding  Literary  Institute,  97, 
222,  223. 

Hill,  Adams  Sherman.  See  Rhet 
oric. 

Himalayas,  11. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  seventi 
eth  birthday  celebration,  36; 
B.'s  father's  comments  on  it, 
59;  H.'s  wit,  36. 

Homer,  13. 

Honolulu.    See  Hawaii. 

"Hours  of  Spring."   See  Jefferies. 

Hovey,  Richard,  quoted,  268. 

Hudson  River,  home  of  B.,  19,  20, 
24,  25,  225,  238;  his  comments 
on  living  by  a  great  river,  24. 

Hull,  Dr.  Abram,  mentioned,  90, 
91-92;  B.  read  medicine  with 
him,  107;  °  Waiting  "  written  in 
his  office,  177. 

Hurst,  Bishop,  98. 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry,  187. 

Hylas,  80,  93,  119. 

Hymettus,  Mount,  a  wild-honey 
haunt  near  Slabsides,  31. 

"Idler,  The."    See  Johnson. 

"Idyl  of  the  Honey  Bee,"  men 
tioned,  71. 

Immortality,  Emerson's  essay, 
187;  Fiske's  lecture,  188;  Whit 
man  quoted,  189;  B.'s  comments, 
188-89. 

"Independent,"  the  N.Y.,  175. 

Indian  name  given  to  B.,  5. 

"Indirections,  On,"   159-60. 

"Indoor  Studies,"  21. 

"Invitation,  The,"  118. 

Jamaica,  22,  238. 
Japan,  134. 


INDEX 


Jefferies,  Richard,  257,  260. 
Johnson,  Samuel,  early  influence 
on  B.,  101,  102,  105,  148,  149. 

Kane's  "Arctic  Explorations," 
21. 

Kansas,  230. 

Kelly,  Amy.  See  Burroughs, 
Amy  Kelly. 

Kelly,  Edmund,  B.'s  maternal 
grandfather;  described  by  B., 
51-53;  a  soldier,  51,  53,  113, 
114;  a  dreamer,  65, 114;  religion 
of  the  Kellys,  65,  113;  quick 
tempered,  66;  Celtic  descent, 
65, 66, 114, 191;  belief  in  spooks, 
51;  trout-fishing,  52,  113,  217- 
18;  story  of  black  snake,  52; 
death,  96,  191;  B.'s  visit  to 
graves  of  grandparents,  191. 

Kelly,  John,  maternal  cousin,  50. 

Kilauea,  238. 

"Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  164, 
177. 

La  Fayette,  Marquis  de,  51. 

Lady's-slipper.     See  cypripedium. 

Lamb,  Charles,  149. 

"Leader,  The,"  printed  early  ar 
ticles  of  B.'s,  130,  172;  quoted 
from,  157-62. 

"Leaf  and  Tendril,"  155. 

"  Leaves  of  Grass."  See  Whitman. 

Letters,  from  B.  to  school-children, 
14-17;  letters  to  B.  referred 
to,  10-13;  early  letters  of  B., 
96. 

"Life  of  the  Bee."  See  Maeter 
linck. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  35. 

"Literary  Values,"  149,  164. 

"Little  Billee."   See  Thackeray. 

Locke's  "Essay  on  the  Human 
Understanding,"  101,  102,  148, 
149. 

"Locusts  and  Wild  Honey,"  155. 

"Long  Road,  The,"  155,  221. 

"Long  Woods,"  211. 

"Loss  and  Gain,"  175,  176. 


Lowell,  James  Russell,  opinion 
concerning  "Expression,"  128, 
129;  rejected  "Analogy,"  164. 

Maeterlinck's  "Life  of  the  Bee." 
39;  "Silence,"  39. 

"  Man  -not  -  afraid  -  of  -  company ," 
Indian  name  given  to  B.,  5. 

Martinez,  California,  home  of 
John  Muir,  227,  249. 

Matthews,  Brander,  quoted,  2. 

"May-Day."     See  Emerson. 

"  Mellow  England."  See  England. 

Merced  River.     See  Yosemite. 

"Michael  Fairless,"  260. 

Milton,  parsing  "Paradise  Lost," 
97;  B.  shocked  at  celestial  war 
fare,  then  skeptical,  98;  M. 
quoted  by  John  Muir  at  Grand 
Canon,  236;  mentioned,  166. 

Minot,  Lavinia,  51,  53. 

Mission  Inn.  See  Riverside,  Cali 
fornia. 

Mojave  Desert,  227. 

Montaigne,  187. 

Montgomery  Hollow  Stream,  24, 
52,  76,  217. 

Moore,  Isabel,  7,  8. 

Mount  Lowe,  245. 

Muir  Glacier.   See  Muir. 

Muir,  John,  as  traveling  compan 
ion,  227,  234,  237;  writing  in 
New  York,  preparatory  to  Afri 
can  trip,  223-24;  M.  as  racon 
teur,  228,  231,  250;  "a  born 
tease,"  229,  230,  234,  235,  236, 
237,  246-47,  248;  with  B.  and 
M.  on  Desert,  230-35;  M.  dis 
covered  Petrified  Forests  in 
Arizona,  234-35;  his  disregard 
for  food  and  sleep,  235;  with  M. 
and  B.  at  Grand  Canon,  235- 
37,  252;  in  Yosemite,  247-49, 
252,  253-54;  M.  the  Wanderer, 
237,  241,  250-51;  "the  Beloved 
Egotist,"  253;  "John  of  Moun 
tains,"  253;  aversion  to  speech- 
making,  241;  gregarious  inclin- 

atirina       <?A1  •      "GUiottmn   "     9A%' 


ations,  241;   "Stickeen,"  243; 


283 


INDEX 


discoverer  of  Muir  Glacier,  245; 
his  glacial  theory,  248,  250;  in- 
defatigability  as  student  and 
note- taker,  249,  250;  defender 
of  forests,  249;  the  botanist, 
249;  generosity,  251-52;  his  fa 
vorite  epithet,  242-43;  M.  and 
B.  contrasted,  231,  234,  235, 
237,  238,  241,  250-51;  M. 
quoted,  233,  235,  236,  241,  242, 
250,  252. 

"Murphy,  the  Indian  Killer," 
121. 

Mushrooms,  30, 

"My  Brother's  Farm,"  64, 

Nature-fakers,  52,  134,  150,  194, 
264,  265. 

Nature  study  in  schools  and  col 
leges,  81,  82. 

Nature  writing,  earliest  by  B., 
129,130.  See  '<  From  the  Back 
Country";  see  also  108,  173. 

Nevada  Fall.   See  Yosemite. 

Neversink,  22. 

"New  Ideas,"  early  essay  of  B.'s, 
quoted,  157. 

New  Zealand,  11. 

"Noon  of  Science,"  221. 

North,  Ursula.  See  Burroughs, 
Ursula  North. 

Occultation  of  Venus,  100. 

Old  Clump,  83, 124,  200,  201,  202. 

Old  Home,  birthplace  of  B.,  60, 
64,  71,  72,  202,  209,  218,  224; 
his  fondness  for  it,68, 70,  71, 82- 
83,  97,  198;  B.'s  homesickness 
for,  97,  196  (see  also  "The  Re 
turn");  farm  on  which  Wood- 
chuck  Lodge  is  located,  199; 
region  about,  201;  B.'s  remin 
iscences,  83-84,  114-17,  123- 
25;  corn-shelling,  206-07;  walks 
about,  208-09. 

Old  School  Baptist,  48,  55,  63,  67. 

Olney's  geography,  74. 

"On  Indirections,"  159,  160. 

"Oom  John,"  3. 


"Outlook  upon  Life,  An,"  186. 
"Overland  Monthly,"  249. 

"Pageant  of  Summer."  See  Jef- 
f  cries. 

Pang  Yang,  185. 

"Paradise  Lost."     See  Milton. 

Pasadena,  California,  240,  242, 
243,  244,  245. 

Pepacton,  stream  of  B.'s  boyhood, 
22,  198,  202,  221;  "Pepactqn," 
the  book,  198. 

Personality,  mystery  of,  70-72.. 

Petrified  Forests,  Arizona,  227, 
231-35,  242,,  252] ;  description 
of  forests,  232-34;  discovered 
by  Muir,  234-35;  with  B.  a,nd 
Muir,  232-35, 

Pewee,  262. 

"Phantoms  Behind  Us,  The/' 
209. 

"Philomath,"  150. 

Pietro,  Cartaino  Sciarrino,  sculp 
tor,  3,  200. 

Pigeons,  wild,  77,  78,  256. 

"Pinch  of  Salt,  A,"  155. 

Poetry  versus  science,  156,  157. 

"Poet's  Epitaph."  See  Wordsh 
worth. 

Polygala,  fringed,  262, 

Poole's  Index,  129. 

Pope,  105,  126, 

"Popple  Town  Hill,"  185., 

Porcupine,  259,  265. 

Potomac,  22. 

Potosi,  159. 

Poughkeepsie,  20,  57,  184. 

Pupils,  early,  of  B,,  94-95. 

"Rainbow,  The."  See  Words 
worth. 

"Rainbow,  The,"  essay  by  Bv 
222. 

"Rambler,  The."    See  Johnson, 

Raphael,  166. 

Red  Kill,  24,  53,  90, 

"Return,  The,"  197. 

"Return  of  the  Birds,  The,"  108, 

Rhetoric,  B.'s  views  on  its  value. 


284 


INDEX 


14-16.  98;  Hill's  Rhetoric 
quotes  from  "Expression,"  129. 

Riverby,  home  of  B.  at  West 
Park,  N.Y.,  mentioned,  23,  34, 
198;  referred  to,  184,  192,  193; 
alluded  to,  225;  described,  193; 
vineyards,  193. 

Riverside,  -California,     239,  240. 

"Road-Mender,  The."  See  "Mi- 
chael  Fairless." 

"Robbers'  Roost,"  232. 

"Roof-Tree,"  32. 

Roosevelt,  Theodore,  dedicated 
book  to  B.,  3;  quoted,  3;  how  he 
folds  his  hands,  13;  moments  of 
silence,  13;  alluded  to,  22;  re 
ferred  to.  143;  in  Africa,  242; 
Muir's  comments  on  R.,  242; 
his  nickname  for  him,  242,  243. 

Roxbury,  N.Y.,  birthplace  of  B. 
and  of  his  father,  47,  198;  men 
tioned,  73,  150,  202,  204,  212; 
B.'s  description  of  surrounding 
country,  88,  202-03,  206;  its 
first  academy,  212-13. 

"Rural  Divinity,  Our,"  155. 

Sainte-Beuve,  187. 

Saint-Pierre's  "Studies  of  Na 
ture,"  101,  126,  148-49. 

San  Bernardino,  California,  239. 

Sanborn,  Frank  B.,  173. 

San  Francisco,  California,  245, 
246. 

San  Joaquin  Valley,  223. 

Santa  Fe  route,  229,  246. 

Sap-bush,  description  by  B.,  85- 
87,  218;  early  sugar-making, 
58,  74-75,  114. 

"Saturday  Press,"  130,  151-55, 
174. 

Savage,  Minot  J.,  255. 

Schlegel's  "Philosophy  of  His 
tory,"  211, 

School  days,  early,  74;  at  Hed- 
ding  Literary  Institute,  97- 
100,  222;  schoolmates,  98-99; 
anecdotes,  99;  at  Cooperstown 
Seminary,  104,  105. 


Schopenhauer,  41. 

Schubert's  Serenade,  801. 

Science  versus  poetry,  156,  157. 

Scudder,  Horace  E..  164. 

Scudder.  Warren,  94. 

Selborne.     See  White,  Gilbert. 

Sentinel  Rock.     See  Yosemite. 

Sequoia,  243. 

Shakespeare,  14,  126,  127. 

Sheep-washing,  212. 

Sherman,  Ellen  Burns,  1. 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  quoted,  262. 

Sierra,  242,  249. 

Sigillaria.     See  Petrified  Forests. 

"Signs  of  the  Times,"  56,  68. 

"Silly  Sally,"  a  cat  at  Slabsides, 
34,  41. 

Skylarks  in  Hawaii,  238. 

Slabsides,  B.'s  retreat  near  West 
Park,  N.Y.,  5;  the  goal  of  his 
readers,  6,  9,  12,  26,  27;  its  far- 
reaching  influence,  9-10;  Slab- 
sides  hospitality,  10,  38-41,  44, 
77,  185,  189-90;  the  retreat  de 
scribed,  20,  21,  27,  28,  29,  31- 
34;  alluded  to,  240;  B.'s  life  at 
Slabsides,  28,  33-34;  the  build 
ing  of  S.,  33-34;  the  original 
Slabsides,  65;  B.  and  his  brother 
Hiram  at  S.,  71-72,  112;  region 
around  S.  described  by  Whit 
man,  25;  by  author,  31-32, 184- 
85,  187,  190-91;  "A  Winter 
Day  at  S.,"  184-94;  "Sage  of 
Slabsides,"  184;  fireside  talks 
with  B.,  34-39,  41-43,  186-87, 
183-89,  191;  interior  of  S.,  190; 
mentioned,  193,  198;  rosebush, 
214. 

"Snow  Walkers,  The,"  155. 

Socrates,  quoted,  26. 

"Some  of  the  Ways  of  Power," 
161. 

"Songs  of  Three  Centuries."  See 
Whittier. 

Sophocles,  221. 

Sparrow,  vesper,  its  song,  201. 

"  Specimen  Days,"  quoted  from, 
25. 


285 


INDEX 


Spenser,  105. 

Spiritualism,  150. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  136, 
141. 

"Stickeen."     See  Muir. 

"St.  John's  Bread,"  11. 

Stone-fence  making,  266. 

Strawberry,  essay  on,  15,  269; 
quest  of,  116,  223,  269. 

"Street  of  Lost  Time,"  195,  196. 

Study  at  Riverby,  mentioned,  24, 
187,  193;  Hay-barn,  study  at 
Woodchuck  Lodge,  200. 

Style,  B.'s  comments  on,  14-16, 
106,  130,  144-45,  152-54. 

Sugar-making.     See  Sap-bush. 

"Summit  of  the  Years,"  221,  222. 

Sundays,  best  days  for  nature  com 
munion,  124,  125. 

Swallow,  156. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  126. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 
"Little  Billee"  mentioned,  220. 

Thayer,  W.  R.,  quoted,  69. 

"Theory  and  Practice,"  157. 

Thomson,  James,  126. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  compared 
with  other  literary  naturalists, 
19-22,  26,  27,  138,  257,  259, 
260,  263;  quoted,  28;  early  in 
fluenced  B.,  81. 

"Thought  on  Culture,  A,"  153, 
154. 

Thrush,  hermit,  200,  202,  271, 
272. 

"Time  and  Change,"  Brander 
Matthews's  criticism,  2;  West 
ern  architect's  comments,  9; 
B.'s  description  of  his  native 
hills,  206.  See  also,  88. 

Titles,  B.'s  felicity  concerning, 
155. 

Tolstoy,  39,  200. 

Tongore,  92,  93,  94,  95,  103. 

"Treasures  of  the  Humble."  See 
Maeterlinck. 

Treasury  Department,  23,  109. 

Trout-fishing,  favorite  pastime  of 


B.,  14,  76,  124,  215,  217-18; 
better  than  rhetoric,  14;  pas 
time  of  grandfather,  52,  113, 
217-18;  B.  a  trout-fisherman  in 
stead  of  social  reformer,  133. 
Tuolumne  meadows.  See  Muir. 

Universe  as  mother  of  us  all,  4,  5. 


"Vagaries  viz.  Spiritualism,"  150. 

Valley  Forge,  51,  53. 

Vassar  College,  address  to  rhet 
oric  class,  15;  students  at  Slab- 
sides,  26;  broken  bread-box,  41. 

Vernal  Falls.   See  Yosemite. 

"Vine-Dresser  of  Esopus,"  al 
luded  to,  23,  24,  193. 

Vineyards  at  Riverby,  23,  24. 

Volcano,  Hawaiian,  238. 

"Waiting,"  a  universal  solace,  5, 
12,  43,  177;  alluded  to,  13,  192; 
conditions  under  which  it  was 
written,  42, 177;  B.'s  comments 
on  it,  42-43,  177-78;  further 
comments  on  it,  180-81;  Joel 
Benton's  comments,  181-82; 
Wasson's'opinion,  177, 178-79;  a 
discarded  stanza,  180;  a  stanza 
sometimes  substituted,  by  the 
author,  181;  a  spurious  stanza, 
181;  the  poem  itself,  182-83;  re 
ferred  to,  189,  197. 

"Wake  Robin,"  mentioned,  9, 
155;  B.'s  first  nature  book,  173; 
Emerson's  comments  on,  35- 
36;  referred  to,  118,  159,  271. 

Walden  Pond.     See  Thoreau. 

"Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Per 
son."  See  Whitman. 

Warbler,  B.'s  first,  210-11. 

Warbler,  hooded,  B.'s  first  iden 
tification  of,  108. 

"Washington,  Life  of,"  121. 

Washington,  D.C.,  B.'s  life  in,  23, 
108-09,  173;  association  with 
Whitman,  37-38,  103. 

Wasson,  David  A.,  mentioned, 
164,  177;  letters  to  B.  quoted, 


286 


INDEX 


165-72 ;  concerning  "  Wait 
ing,"  177, 178-79;  Wasson'sown 
publications,  166-67;  advice 
concerning  essay- writing,  166, 
167, 169, 170, 171-72;  W.'s  opin 
ion  of  B.'s  intellectual  gifts, 
165-66, 168,  169,  170,  171,  178- 
79. 

West  Park,  23,  24,  29,  112,  184, 
198. 

West  Point,  B.'s  first  meeting 
with  Emerson  described,  35; 
library  used  by  B.  in  ornitho 
logical  studies,  107;  B.  teaching 
near  West  Point,  on  the  Hud 
son,  107. 

Whately's  Logic,  98. 

"What  Life  Means  to  Me,"  140. 

Whipple,  Edwin  Percy,  105. 

"White  Day  and  a  Red  Fox,  A," 
69. 

White,  Gilbert,  compared  with 
Thoreau  and  B.,  19,  20,  21,  27, 
257,  258-59;  quoted,  259; 
"Natural  History  of  Selborne, 
21. 

Whitman,  Walt,  comments  on 
B.'s  true  heartedness,  3;  W.'s  in 
fluence  on  a  certain  correspond 
ent,  9;  his  early  influence  on  B., 
35,  126;  W.  mentioned,  187, 
220;  quoted,  189,  209;  "Leaves 
of  Grass,"  Emerson's  indorse 
ment,  36-37 ;  quoted  as  to  "push 
of  reading,"  130;  B.'s  descrip 
tion  of  W.,  37-38;  "Walt  Whit 
man  as  Poet  and  Person,"  173; 
"Whitman,  A  Study,"  written 
at  Slabsides,  71,  173;  B.'s  love 
for  W.,  72,  103;  W.  as  cham 
pioned  by  B.,  134,  173;  "Flight 
of  the  Eagle,"  155;  W.'s  descrip 


tion  of  Black  Pond  Falls,  25; 
W.  and  Anne  Gilchrist,  41-42; 
W.  quoted  about  B.,  255,  257; 
contrasts  B.  and  Thoreau,  260. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  his 
manner,  36;  his  "  Songs  of  Three 
Centuries"  gave  publicity  to 
"Waiting,"  177. 

Willowemoc,  271. 

"Winter  Sunshine,"  50,  155. 

"Wisdom  and  Destiny."  See 
Maeterlinck. 

Woodchuck  Lodge,  the  Catskill 
summer  home  of  B.,  at  Rox- 
bury,  N.Y.,  69, 198;  description 
of  it,  199-200;  life  there,  see 
"Back  to  Pepacton,"  199-202. 
218-20,  221-26. 

Woodchucks,  84,  219,  225;  "John 
of  Woodchucks,"  219. 

Wordsworth,  WTilliam,  early  in 
fluenced  B.,  81, 126;  W.  quoted, 
32,  220;  mentioned,  187;  al 
luded  to,  206;  "The  Rainbow," 
222;  B.'s  comments  on  W.,  220. 

"World  Growth,"  157. 

"Year  in  the  Fields,  A,"  71. 

Yellowstone  National  Park,  B.'s 
trip  there  with  Roosevelt,  22; 
delay  in  writing  up  the  trip, 
143. 

Yeoman  ancestry.  See  BUR 
ROUGHS,  JOHN. 

Yosemite  Valley,  227,  243,  250, 
252;  with  B.  and  Muir  in,  247- 
49,  252;  Yosemite  Falls,  248-49, 
253;  Muir's  notes  on,  250;  "The 
Spell  of  Yosemite,"  B.'s  essay, 
22. 

Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  105, 
126. 


UNIVERSITY 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


IOAW 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


•••, 

I*  1973     . 

REC'OLD   MAR 

573-ll«Mo  3 

LD21-35m-8,'72 
(Q4189S10)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


925590 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


